Amazing Grace
by Maraudercat
Summary: The victors of the annual Hunger Games usually succeed through strength, training, or popularity. Intelligence is the slow path to victory, but it is all I have to win. My name is Wiress Ling and this is my story.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins and any other entities who have purchased the rights. **

* * *

I wake as always to the low whine that signals the end of the night-shift. Six am exactly, the dawn light a pale orange-grey through the smog. I shiver as my bare toes hit the icy metal wall, reminding me of the sewing I neglected last night in favour of my current project. As one of the top students in my year I am part of the senior science and innovation class, where we are taught to design and build useful objects. For most of our district's residents, life during and after school revolves around the factory production lines unless you can offer something better. I plan on being part of the latter group.

A gentle humming reaches my ears as I curl over under the sheet and try to go back to sleep, and I can make out the words through the thin wall. Balia singing Malcon back to sleep with one of the songs our Grandma taught us before she passed. A sleepy grunt echoes from the other bunk below me and I hear Pella shift her head under her bedding to block out the noise. Soon enough the sound of footsteps and doors drowns out the lilting song as the workers from our building arrive home for a few hours rest. Normally the morning shift would have already left, but today is Reaping day. The day the annual sacrifices will be chosen to die for the Capitol's entertainment. At least we get to sleep in, sort of.

As the clamour of tired workers returning home dies away I can still hear the gentle humming punctuated by sobs. It's the first year Balia is eligible for the games and Malcon has spent the last two weeks in abject terror that she will go away and leave him on his own. Well, he wouldn't be on his own, but in his head Balia is the only one that counts.

There were complications when Malcy was born, complications that nearly killed both him and my mother five years ago. She was too old to be having her fifth child, or that's what Julez's mother said as she directed us to wash out the bloodstained cloths and fetch powders from her bag while my mother lay screaming. I had been only Balia's age at the time, but father and Ezra were on shift so Pella and I had to help out. The blood flow to my little brother's brain had been cut off at one stage, and he'd been blue in the face when he finally appeared until Tereza blew in his lungs and got them working. As he grew up it was clear something wasn't right; he didn't start talking until he was nearly four, and his eyes are often unfocused when anyone except Balia speaks to him. She is the centre of his little world, and I sometimes wonder if he realises the rest of us are here at all. I'm still not sure how he will cope when he starts school this fall.

A low mutter brings me back to the present, my charming older sister who seems to find nothing good about the world, especially before breakfast. She is usually part of the morning shift at the microchip assembly line on Silica Avenue, and Reaping day is the only day of the year she gets to sleep in. It's her second year now that she is safe, and I can't help but envy that feeling of security, the knowledge that she won't ever have to go off and fight to the death with twenty-three other children that is still two ceremonies from my grasp.

Giving up on my plans of further rest, I roll off the bed and clamber down the three rungs to the floor, gasping again as my bare toes hit the cold floor. Pella glares at me as I slip out the door towards the kitchen, just like usual. Mother is already awake, boiling the kettle and plugging in the toaster as she slices bread from this week's loaf. Some mornings we don't get any power at all, so we always make the most of it on days that it's here. Another of the few good things about this time of year is the reliable power to the apartments, though the factories are on a different line and almost never go down. The toaster is an old one that I rescued and repaired when I was ten, and it is still working now. A testament to the power of knowledge and a decent soldering iron.

I start fetching out the plates and glasses while mother toasts the slices two at a time, piling them up so I can butter them. We always have butter and syrup for breakfast reaping day just in case it's the last time we eat together as a family. As I finish the first plate Pella wanders out, her short hair dishevelled from sleep. Balia pokes her head out when she hears the clatter of crockery and reappears a few seconds later towing Malcon behind her.

I tousle my brother's thick dark curls as I pass Balia his plate and he gives me that same half-vacant look I've come to expect. Today his wide eyes are red-rimmed and his ashen cheeks are streaked with tears as he clutches the back of Balia's shirt desperately. If my sister's one entry amongst the thousands is somehow chosen today, I'm not sure how we will deal with him. Then I remember that I should be worrying more about my own entries than my sister's. That year that Malcy was born and the year after my mother was too sick to work so both Pella and I took out some tesserae. Even though we haven't needed it since, those entries still count and today I will have eleven slips of paper in the giant ball that bear my name.

My father's arrival at the table, followed by a knock on the front door that is Ezra and his new wife Laney forces me to put aside my worries. Ezra hugs us each in turn, lingering over myself and Balia before turning to the family to announce their wonderful news. As we all congratulate a blushing Laney on her newly discovered pregnancy, I can't help but wish they had waited until this afternoon to tell us, once we were assured of our safety for another year.

As I start on my food I find myself suddenly shivering, and then a wave of almost nausea strikes, making the bread and syrup seem dry in my mouth. Three times in my life I have had this feeling of pressing uneasiness swamp me, and each time it has marked a moment of tragedy. The day Grandpa electrocuted himself when I was six, the morning of Malcy's birth and the night of the apartment fire last year that killed over a hundred people including three of the girls from my class. As the dreaded feeling surges in my stomach and shiver down my spine, I somehow know that today is not going to end well.

-xXx-

After breakfast we take turns to use the tiny shower cubicle, though the icy water never quite removes the layer of grey dust from my skin. The pollution in the air seeps into the very pores of our district's skin, leaving us ashen-faced and sickly-looking. My hair usually washes up a little better, and the 60 seconds of water is enough to get the grey dust coating out of my dark waves. Mother passes in my reaping clothes, and I squeeze out the worst of the water from my hair before surrendering the room to Balia. The dress is one of Pella's old ones, faded purple with a sash around the middle. It hangs awkwardly just above my knees, my slightly taller frame unusual for our family and indeed our district. Pella is already dressed in her new outfit, its pale yellow material making her appear even more unhealthy than usual. Over her shoulder, Ezra catches my eye and laughs silently, clearly thinking the same thing. He will probably duck out as we are leaving to change into his best shirt and trousers, and will still beat us to the bus.

I check the clock as Balia steps out in my old blue dress, where the dimmed display reads 0840. Plenty of time to make the bus-ride to the square. Hopefully we won't have to rush like last year. Our district is one of the largest in terms of population, and though they never give us complete numbers in school, it's not hard to estimate the other districts' numbers based on what is required for each trade. Every apartment block is provided a bus to transport the inhabitants to the central square, unless they prefer to walk the ten miles to the only open space inside the district walls with enough room to fit the majority of the population. Usually the first six-thousand or so cram into the actual square including the two-and a half thousand eligible to become our newest tributes. The remainder are shifted into the four cross-streets, around two-thousand to each, where the warehouse sides are covered in temporary screens for their viewing. Our family usually sticks to the south-east cross-street, the closest to our drop-off point to avoid the crushing crowd and the worst of the book-keepers.

Our bus leaves at nine, and is just as packed and stuffy as always. One of the joys of district three: ice-cold nights and humid, wretchedly hot days for half the year. The other half is plain cold. One of the few good things about spending twelve hours in a factory shift or six hours in school is the temperature regulation at 70 degrees.

Thankfully we make the twenty-minute journey without incident, and Balia repeats over and over how good Malcy is to not throw a tantrum this year as we wait to sign in. Of course there is every chance he will throw one once he realises that Balia will be heading to the square rather than the shaded alcove between factories. Ezra, who is probably the next best with our youngest sibling scoops him up and lets him kiss us one last time before we go our separate ways. We get about ten steps before the howling starts, and I grab Balia forcefully by the hand and tow her away from our brother's screams. Hopefully once we are out of sight he will calm down enough that the peacekeepers won't make an issue of it. I have seen them strike crying children before, and the parents too if they try to object.

One year a young woman holding a bawling baby tried to slip down a side-street to calm her child down. It was during the name-drawing, so everyone else was watching the screens, which was why only I saw the frustrated guard take the infant and slam its wailing head into a wall. The mother had seemed too shocked to do anything, and had simply slid down the wall cradling the lifeless bundle in her arms in abject silence.

It has always left me feeling edgy around the white-suited men and my premonitory feeling from this morning leaves me doubly anticipating disaster of some sort. As we join the line of adolescents outside the reaping zone I realise that the trembling I can feel isn't just my own. I turn and force a hopefully supportive smile for Balia, who stares back at me for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and forcing her chin up. She drops my hand and smiles back, and it is only the slight quiver of her lower lip that betrays her fear.

"Just remember your probability lessons," I whisper as we near the front of the line, reaching down to brush a curl from her face before turning back towards the roped square that is starting to fill. Surely, surely with only one entry amongst the thousands Balia will be safe. Even my eleven in at least five-thousand is fairly safe. A lot safer than many girls my age.

The roped areas are separated by age, and I get time for a brief hug before sending Balia off to the front, where the smallest children are huddled together. I remember the terror I felt during my first reaping, absolutely certain like everyone else nearby that I would be one of the rare twelve-year-olds chosen for certain death. The terror has been less every year, despite the increased entries as I get closer and closer to that glorious age of safety and freedom. Pella wasted a week's pay on a chocolate after her last reaping, while Ezra and his friends found a spirits-dealer in one of the shaded alleys and came home so roaring drunk that he wakened our entire level.

I have already decided that when, _when_ I survive my last reaping in twelve months time I will celebrate by buying something new from the bookstore and sitting down to read it from start to finish.

Lost in my daydreams of the library I will someday own, I am startled to hear the digitalised chime that signals eleven o'clock. My just above average height allows me to see past the sea of dark hair to the stage as the mayor takes the podium to begin his usual speech. He is a large man for district three, nearly five feet ten, with a rounded girth that suggests three solid meals a day. His voice is not as great as his build would suggest and even with the amplification, his retelling of Panem's history fades into its usual monotonous murmur.

To his right sits our Capitol Escort, Carmenius Fallow, his white-blonde hair smoothed into spikes and streaked with electric blue that clashes horribly with his magenta waistcoat. He smothers a yawn and plays with his dangling earring, foot tapping as he waits to launch into his part of the ceremony. This is his fourth year as our escort and has commented repeatedly in interviews about how disappointing the tributes in his care have been.

Our two former victors sit on Mayor Redden's left, both trying not to look too bored as they bake in the morning sun that has found a gap through the smog layer. Cupros Glint looks as sour as ever as he shades his eyes, his stringy grey hair as unkempt as his mismatched clothes. In contrast, Beetee Chan sits with his chin resting on his clasped knuckles, the sun glinting off his thick glasses as he glances from face to face in the crowd. He won fourteen years ago, only the second thirteen-year-old victor in the history of the games, and is still quite young looking now. His suit is immaculately pressed, most likely with the new ironing rod that he patented last year. Mister Yoona brought a prototype into our tech class last month for us to take apart and study; the schematic sketch is sitting in a drawer in the side of my bed. I brought it home to examine how the circuitry differed from the electric hairdryers that came into fashion a few years back as my essay project for this term. Something to look at when I get home perhaps.

After ten minutes the mumbling pauses and I re-focus to see Mayor Redden gesturing first to Beetee who gives a jerky nod, and then to Cupros, who continues to glare, giving no acknowledgement to the scattered applause from the crowd. Coughing lightly, the mayor turns to Carmenius, who pastes a wide grin on his face and bounds to the microphone.

"Now ladies and gents, I hope you're all having a happy Hunger Games?"

He pauses, as always for a response from the crowd, then pouts, as always, when there is only silence.

"I don't know about you but I'm excited to see our tributes from this wonderful district. I'm sure we'll have a winner this year!"

Despite the buoyant note in his voice I recognise these as the same words as every year. It's well known that he is getting desperate for a victor, having moved from Eleven to Three a few years back only to see Chaff Hazelwood win the very next games. This will be his tenth year as an escort in total and he is still chasing that first winner.

After a few more banal comments he gleefully rubs his hands together and approaches the giant glass balls. The entire square is suddenly silent enough to hear the jingle of the metal chains dangling from his boots as he steps forwards. Every breath is held as the perfectly manicured hand waves back and forth between one bowl and the other before eventually darting into the midst of the boys' and drawing a single slip of paper. The other girls nearby me relax with their momentary respite, while the boys tremble on the edge of barely controlled fear. Almost directly in front of me a wiry boy with glasses and tufted dark hair is clenching his fists so tightly that his whole body shakes. Carmenius seems to savour the extended moment of silent terror and peels the slip open with great care, smiling at the crowd as he reads the name to himself first. His eyes rove from left to right, as though he knows us well enough to pick the unfortunate out from the sea of ashen faces and one group at a time stiffens in fear then relaxes slightly when his gaze passes.

A gentle cough from the stage seems to remind him that the Capitol broadcasters won't be happy if we run overtime in our boring, Career-less district and he finally announces the name.

"Stuvek Wash."

There is a soft moan from behind me, and I turn to see one of the eighteen-year-old girls biting down on her lip as the tears trickle down her face. The scuffled footsteps make me turn back to see a thin boy, shaking from head to toe, approach the stage. When he turns to face the crowd his eyes focus on a point just over my shoulder and I realize they look alike enough to be related.

I hope for both their sakes she isn't chosen next. _Please_, I think silently as Carmenius prances back to the reaping balls again, forcing the sneer of disgust at another useless tribute away in favour for his manic grin. _Please don't choose Balia, please don't choose that poor girl, please, please, please don't choose me._

The capitolian's hand plunges again into the depths of the paper-filled orb and comes away with two slips. I repeat my silent mantra as the crowd holds its breath, watching him weigh each hidden name up before finally dropping one back. Again I wonder if he enjoys the cruel taunting, the knowledge that whichever pour soul is chosen could have been free by his dropping the other slip.

"Wiress Ling."

There is a muffled sob of relief behind me and I have a moment to be glad for the girl before I realize what I just heard. My name. Me.

But I don't want to die.


	2. Chapter 2

Righto. I've given myself a 4 chapter head-start now and will aim for something vaguely resembling weekly updates. No promises though. Thanks to those who have R&Rd so far.

* * *

I try not to look for Balia as I make my way across the concrete stretch but she is right there in the front when I turn to face the crowd. I can clearly see the glints of light off her drawn face that show she is crying, and when Carmenius asks for volunteers I watch her swallow a sob and stare at the ground. I am glad she doesn't try to volunteer for me; if she were to die our whole family would lose someone they cared about. Malcy probably doesn't even recognise me on the big screen, assuming they got him calmed down enough to watch.

Mayor Redden begins his mumble again as he reads through the Treaty of Treason and I force myself to appear calm and collected. No trembling lip, no clenched or wringing hands, eyes focused on the camera towers far above the crowd. It's only when I glance down again to meet my sister's eyes that I lose some control. I feel every second of the cool path as the single tear traces down my cheek and catches on my lip before dropping to the grey concrete stage.

I realise this is probably the last chance I have to view our district and I try to draw some comfort from the grubby uniform grey and silver cubes that extend along the roadways. Our apartment block is way too far away to see from here, but it is easy to pretend that one of the other identical buildings is my home. There are no factories backing on to the square but a few blocks away I can see the distinctive array of vents that marks a workplace.

That's the way of it here in Three; grey concrete streets, grey concrete buildings with dull metallic doors and window shutters coated in a layer of grey grime from the vents. The factories are carefully interspersed between the living areas so that everyone can make it to their workplace on foot. The north avenue from the square holds the central market area, where the few families not slaving away in a design-room or production line ply their trade. We rarely shop here though; each cluster of apartments has its own market of sorts, containing at least a tinnier, a clothes-seller and a spare-parts merchant. Our market also has a not-quite-fresh fruit merchant and a dairy seller, though we can only afford to buy from them occasionally. A second clothier who sells fine outfits suitable for reapings and celebrations rotates between a dozen different markets and a baker and coal seller usually turn up once a week.

From where I stand I can see the first three shops along the left-hand side of North avenue. I can't see the front of the one opposite, but I know that it's the largest tinnier in the entire district, taking up the equivalent of four stores. We go maybe once or twice a year to pick out special treats such as the tinned peaches for mother's birthday or the packs of dough that bake over the fire to make cookies with small lumps of nuts. For me the equally big treat was always the shop directly opposite, which sells not only the usual jumble of used wires and reclaimed circuitry but also a wide range of new or nearly-new parts, everything from miniature motors to heating elements and music players. I always saved up my pocket money to buy something for whatever project I was working on and delighted in having a working part that I didn't have to build myself. I also enjoy talking to the traders, who apparently recognised my knowledge and always spoke fairly to me despite my age. While mother and Pella spent hours drooling over the lace and silk-trimmed dresses and fancy shoes I would be next-door watching demonstrations of remote-control flyers and automatic drink machines.

The sound of half-hearted applause knocks me again from my reverie and I am reminded as I briefly clasp hands with the still trembling Stuvek that I can't afford to let my mind wander any more. Not if I am to survive the coming weeks.

We are herded through the doorway of the Justice Building by a ring of Peacekeepers and I pick up my pace so that none of them have a reason to touch me. The room I am shown to is so bright and colourful in our district of bland grey that I am left blinking as I stare around the decorated corners. Rainbow-hued hangings on the walls depict birds and flowers and fruits, the like of which we never see for real in our concrete wasteland. The chairs are plum leather with bright copper rivets, and even the fireplace is white marble inlaid with darker stone carvings and gold. _Such a waste_, I think as I sit carefully on the uncomfortably soft leather. _So much beauty wasted on so few_.

The door springs open and my parents hurry in, followed by Pella who glances around with her usual frown. As she scowls at the ornate wooden table I realise that for once we might be thinking the same thing. My mother is shaking as she sits collapses beside me to wrap me in her arms, and my father rests his hands on my shoulder and hers as he speaks.

"You're a smart girl Wiress. There must be something…" He chokes on his words; he knows as well as I do that there is no way I am coming back. I could be the smartest person in Panem, but that won't make a difference when a Career with a sword or some Capitol-invented monster comes after me. In the end we just stay like that, mother holding me and father holding both of us while Pella lurks behind until the Peacekeeper returns and yells "Time's up!"

"Goodbye," I whisper as father pries my mother away, and he manages a half-smile that quickly disappears. Pella has time for one last comment as she follows them out.

"Make it quick Wiress. Don't make them suffer watching you die slowly."

And she is gone too, her final words to me as cold as ever.

-xXx-

After a minute or so the door opens again and I don't have time to stand before Balia tackles me into the couch with a ferocious hug. I can feel her whole body shaking as she buries her face in my shoulder and I reach out and stroke her curls before glancing towards my two brothers. Ezra balances Malcy on his hip as he kneels beside me so that our faces are level. He reaches out with a frown and brushes the tears from my face before taking my spare hand and clasping tight enough to make my fingers tingle.

"Please don't give up Wiress. I believe in you. We all do."

I briefly think of Pella's parting words, feeling my face twist into a wry smile.

"We believe in you. We love you. At least try to come back, please."

Balia cuddles closer as she speaks and I can hear the extra whisper that is meant just for me.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry that she didn't volunteer, sorry that she will have to watch her sister die knowing that she could have changed it somehow. But my death is no guarantee of her safety, and without me there will be one less worker in the house. One less person bringing money to the table. In the end, unless by some miracle I survive, we all lose.

The disadvantage to being good with numbers is that I know how little chance I have, but this is my little sister so I have to say something brave even if I know it's a lie. I am trying to scramble together a few words that sound like I'm not giving up when a little voice catches us all unaware.

"Wiress? I don't want you to go. Don't go away."

Little Malcy is looking right at me for once, his dark eyes focused over a frown of concentration, as though acknowledging the existence of anyone other than Balia is a challenge. I honestly believed that he wouldn't remember me once I had left, and maybe in a few weeks the memory of me will disappear from his little world. But right now my little brother is actually talking to me for the first time in his life, a miracle in itself. If you had asked me yesterday I would have said I had more chance of winning the games then talking to my baby brother, and maybe I still do.

"I'll try. I promise," I tell them, and they are all nodding when the knock comes on the door. I have time for one last hug from each of them before they leave. Then Ezra turns back, Malcy still in his arms, ignoring the Peacekeeper's grunt of frustration as he hands me his ring. Three loops of coated copper wire set with a drop of varnished solder, the ring Balia and I made him from scrap for his nineteenth birthday. I slide it onto my finger, where it twirls loosely and whisper my thanks to the wood-panelled door that is suddenly slammed shut.

I doubt they will let anyone else in after my siblings' disobedience, but to my surprise the door opens again to admit Julez and Tereza. They live just one floor above us, and Tereza is the closest thing we or the surrounding buildings have to a medical practitioner. Julez is the year above me in school and the only other person in our block in SSI. It makes us sort of friends, I guess. We walk home from the late afternoon lessons together and occasionally share notes or help each other with our projects. Neither of them seem to know what to say, but the fact that they are here means a great deal to me. It reminds me that I'm not just fighting for myself, but also for my family and my friends. My death will cause them pain, perhaps not the physical pain I will face, but the mental anguish of watching someone you know slowly starve or be carved up. My victory, however would bring hope and food to our bleak district.

Eventually Julez holds out his hand and I take it, a warm handshake for luck and a muttered comment that intelligence counts for something. Tereza bestows a quick hug and promises to keep an eye on my family.

My final visitors are even more surprising. Mister Yoona and Miss Tafter, who run the SSI program at our school come to wish me luck. They both know first-hand what I can do with a decent set of tools and a few spare parts. For a moment after they leave I imagine myself captivating the Capitol audience with my brilliant ingenuity and being rewarded with a silver parachute full of useful items to build with. Then I laugh away the vision; the Capitol doesn't want to watch a scrawny, pinch-faced girl play with wires. They want to see blood, mayhem and carnage. Boys with rippled chest muscles and scantily clad girls duelling to the death for glory and entertainment. Epic battles between gorgeous and well-fed tributes and terrifying monsters. Those of us from the lesser districts are just the minor characters in their favourite show of the year, the ones that get horrific deaths to keep the story interesting. But I promised to try, and I spend my last minutes in district three with my hand curled around Ezra's ring, determined to at least go down fighting.


	3. Chapter 3

My determination and belief that I might see my home again lasts about two hours into the train journey.

We are ferried from the Justice Building to the train station on the eastern edge of town in fancier cars than the ones the factory overseers own. A glimpse of my reflection in the tinted windows shows me that I didn't quite manage to remove all evidence of my crying, though I probably look a lot better than the boy next to me. The silent stream of tears punctuated by occasional sniffs lasts the entire thirty-minute journey, and only gets worse when Carmenius snaps at him to stop snivelling.

After fighting our way through the small mob of photographers unlucky enough to pull our district, we are hustled on-board and told to get changed for lunch. The room I am shown to is nearly half the size of our apartment that houses six, with its own shower and entire drawers of clothing.

A slap on the door and Carmenius' whining accent tells me to hurry up, so I grab the first items I find and drag them on. The shirt is a creamy white with embroidered flowers and the skirt has an alternating pattern of dark and light purple lines. Both are unnaturally soft against my skin, the hissing of the material alien to my ears as I twist a pinch of the skirt between my fingers. A short-sleeved shirt with a series of strings running up the back catches my eye as I am about to slide the drawer shut and I quickly draw a silken strand from the lacings and loop it into a knot around my district token. As a necklace it hangs just below the shirt collar, and its presence gives me the strength to open the door.

I step into the corridor to see our Capitol escort berating my district partner through his closed door.

"If you don't stop crying boy, then you're a gonner for sure. No-one wants to sponsor a weakling. Get a grip, for pity's sake."

I clear my throat as much to give poor Stuvek a break as needing Carmenius' attention, and the Capitolian turns his disdainful temper on me instead.

"It's about time. At least you're not blubbering everywhere, though you won't be winning any sponsors with those looks either. What I wouldn't give…."

He continues to mutter darkly, before pounding his fist once again into the door-frame.

"COME ON BOY! You're holding us all up now." he hollers, apparently already convinced that his victor-less streak will be continuing another year.

"I'm not hungry. Leave me ALONE!" comes the choked reply, distant through the metal and Carmenius blinks in astonishment, then snarls, "Fine. You'll regret it in a week or so when you're starving in the arena. If you make it past the bloodbath."

He stalks off down the humming corridor, aiming one last kick at the doorframe as he goes, and reaches the end before he remembers me.

"Well? Come on then girl. Don't expect me to do everything for you."

I am tempted to suggest that he's more than welcome to take my place in the upcoming slaughter, but the reminder of my almost certain fate makes me clamp down on the response and shudder. I don't want to die, but if it comes down to it I'd probably take my sister's advice and get it over quickly. The Careers usually kill quickly and cleanly at the bloodbath, so as not to lose any time or risk an attack while leaving themselves unprotected. It's later on when they catch you on your own that you have to worry about a long unpleasant end. Of course the arena usually accounts for a few each year too, and I'm yet to see a gentle death by carnivorous animals.

By the time I force out thoughts of my imminent death in the arena, Carmenius has vanished into the next compartment and I timidly follow down the gleaming silver hall. This compartment is just as luxurious as our rooms, wide cushioned seats spread around a table laden with more food than I have ever seen spread out in one place. Carmenius had mentioned lunch, and I had assumed we would have a few bread rolls and tinned meat, maybe some mixed fruit to tide us over until dinner in the Capitol.

Instead I am faced with plates of pastries, sausage and some thinly sliced meat that is cooked to a crisp. The soft bread rolls are warm and come with a whole row of fillings, none of which have ever seen the inside of a can. The enormous mound of fresh multicoloured fruits serves as a centrepiece to the table and on the far side sits three different pasta dishes, their sauces bright and steaming. No brown greasy tomato-water for the wealthy or the soon-to-die.

Cupros and Beetee are already seated with well-stocked plates, though neither of them has started. Carmenius is in the process of heaping a week's worth of food for a districts family onto three adjacent plates, and is already chewing on something. Cupros' pointed cough reminds me that I am staring, and I quickly grab a plate and load it up with more than I will be able to eat. Two bread-rolls stuffed full of fresh greens, sliced rounds of something white and yellow that I think may be eggs and a sprinkling of fluffy yellow threads that taste vaguely like the squares of cheese that we buy occasionally. One of the sausages and a few of the crispy strips and a spoon-full of pasta in a creamy white sauce with flecks of pink meat. A glass of sweet amber juice that I greedily drink half of before taking a single bite.

I manage the meat and nearly one of the rolls before I'm full, but keep picking to keep the three men company. Apart from the occasional muttered comment from Carmenius they eat in silence, each easily consuming three times as much as me. As I watch them clear their plates I am visited by a momentary anger at the waste of such food. If every person in the Capitol eats like this every day then why should the districts starve?

"So, it's Wiress correct?"

The soft voice startles me and the thud of the soft pastry falling from my fingers to the floor is clearly audible. Cupros snorts and turns back to his drink, the dark juice fuming from the spirits he has obviously mixed in. Beetee continues to survey me with interest, his dark eyes sweeping, taking in every detail, and I suddenly feel the urge to straighten my hair. I have never had a man look at me like that before, and his stare sends a shiver down my spine.

"I wouldn't waste your time on this one," Carmenius observes loudly as he picks at his teeth with a wooden stick. "They only sponsor girls for two reasons: beauty or killer attitude. Or if you've got a good story. Lover waiting back home, honour of your family something like that. Looks like another year of Anatolius and Letitia mocking me."

He suddenly slams his fist into the wooden table, then leaves, the door crashing shut behind him. A small pile of splinters remains, and for a second I think he has broken the table before I remember the toothpick.

The two former victors look at each other for a moment before Cupros shrugs.

"He's probably right. A snivelling boy and a rat-faced girl aren't going to make our jobs easier either."

And he too leaves, collecting a pair of bottles from the side-board on the way out. Which leaves Beetee, who is now staring at my hands, clenched on the table. I clear my throat and he blinks in surprise, and I find myself shyly meeting those shadowed eyes. He looks much like the typical District Three resident; slight build, ashen skin, black hair and dark, slightly angular eyes. At 5'6" he is actually an inch shorter than me, though living on a victor's pension means he is at least well fed. About ninety-five percent of our district seems to come from the same racial stock, or at least the same mix of ethnic groups from before the fall of North America. The remaining minority are mostly traders, probably originating from another district around the dark days, back when people were permitted to move around a lot more freely.

In terms of the Hunger Games, our typical features do us little good. While we're not generally starving, the majority of the population of Three is underfed, and we spend our days hunched over a bench or production line. At least in the lumber, mining and agriculture districts the people build muscle by their labours. The years of breathing polluted air does little for our appearance either, and when you rule out brawn and beauty the only possible winning feature is brains. In the Hunger Games brains is the slow path to victory, a problem when you have to first survive the Cornucopia and get away with the necessary supplies to put a plan into action.

I remember seeing replays of Beetee's games, his mad scramble for something useful at the start, escaping with a jar of cookies and two metal spikes as well as nasty cuts across his shoulders and left arm. He used the jar to collect rain-water, for the eerie pine forests were regularly subjected to thunderstorms, and set a trap with branches, twisted grass rope and the spikes to claim his first kill. The brawny boy from Seven had had a full backpack of supplies including two coils of wire that became Beetee's masterpiece, a web of snares attached to a rod that was positioned in the tallest tree. He sacrificed his glasses to make the lightning rod tip when the wire came up short, and spent the final terrifying chase from the Careers half blind. The five pursuers had chased the pathetic-looking boy straight into his deadly maze, ending their lives in terrible agony as the snares conducted the current from a lightning bolt strike into their trapped bodies.

The screams had continued for far too long, and I suddenly wonder if he still dreams of them. Looking into those dark eyes, ringed with shadowed skin and the slight twitch by his right temple I realise he does. And then I know the terrible truth of the Hunger Games, before I have even reached the Capitol, before I have spoken a word to my mentors: in the end, no-one wins. And maybe a quick and relatively painless death is the best possible outcome.

-xXx-

I find myself lurching from the table, legs trembling as they carry me back to the room with the soft bed and lockable door. A voice trails behind me and as I lie curled on the sheets for minutes or possibly hours, breathing heavily from fear as much as my short scramble to safety I realise Beetee must think I'm mad. The one person who seemed to have not given up hope of my survival, though he probably has now. I remember Cupros' parting words and find myself laughing uncontrollably, hysterically. District Three represented by a snivelling boy and a rat-faced girl. A crazy rat-faced girl, who can't seem to decide whether to laugh or cry.

I remember seeing the shower room earlier, and decide to try and wash away the madness. Maybe I could drown myself, that wouldn't be so bad. I try to stand, and feel my legs give beneath me, my body catching up to my mind and the realisation that I am going to die. It is inevitable. In a few weeks time I will be dead, and the best I can hope for is to get my throat cut at the Cornucopia. Just another girl from District Three dead in the bloodbath. Because I don't have a chance, not really. I haven't seen the others yet but I don't have to. The Career tributes will be savage and eager, the rest will range from the wild-card strong or charming to the pathetically starved or young. One of them will end my life, unless I take it first somehow. But that's stupid. Everyone knows what the Capitol does to the families of those who choose their own way out.

The thought of my family finally breaks through the hysterical terror and my fingers curl around the ring at my chest. My final words with my brothers and sister were a promise to keep fighting. A promise to my baby brother, how can I disappoint them now?

I realise I must decide now whether to fight and risk a terrible death or give up and take an easy way out, for if I choose the former I will need every second to prepare. No more breakdowns, no more anxiety swings, no more mind wandering into horrible fantasies of my imminent death. It would perhaps be easier to leave the decision until after seeing the competition, but I quickly realise the flaw with that plan: that they will appear so intimidating that I will convince myself I have no chance. Or they will all be sweet young innocents who I could never bring myself to harm. I laugh aloud at the thought of a sweet, innocent child volunteering in one of the Career districts and am pleased to discover the hysterical note is gone.

As I stand again, this time successfully, and straighten the mess of my skirt and blouse I notice a change to the rhythm of the train beneath my feet. I realise we must be nearing the Capitol and that my hysterics cost me hours not minutes. Hours I could have spent planning, either alone or with my mentors. Mentor. I doubt even my well above average intelligence will interest Cupros, who won back in the early days before all the showcasing and sponsors. He was one of the rare fair-haired, broad shouldered residents of our district, towering over most of the population at nearly six feet, and his arena included several old buildings strewn with useful items. He built himself a crossbow and took out four tributes from a rooftop, beating the final two in hand-to-hand combat when he ran out of ammunition. That was before they even had mentors, though they did do a pre-game interview of sorts with each of the tributes.

The fact that we only have two victors, both male, does not bode well for my chances, especially as one of the two won on brawn as much as brains. I will have to be lucky and smart to survive even the first day, but if I make it that far I might be able to outsmart the others. And just like that I have decided to take the hard way. I will not lie down for the Capitol's entertainment and force my baby brother and kid sister watch me essentially end my own life. I clasp the ring tighter in my fingers, and it gives me strength. Not only does it remind me that some of my family believes in me, but also that if I get desperate I can use the cord as a final insurance.

A knocking on my door reminds me that we are nearing our destination, and I dash to the bathroom and splash some water on my face, hopefully erasing the remaining signs of my breakdown. A glimpse in the mirror shows that I am mostly successful, though there is little I can do to fix the mess of my hair. If my hair was thick curls like Balia, Malcy or Pella it wouldn't be so bad, but I have gentle waves where they have coarse wire screws. The sheer weight of their hair drags it down into a semblance of neatness that I can never hope to manage in the few minutes I have before disembarking in the Capitol. I curse again my time-wasting breakdown as I throw a handful of water over my head and drag my fingers through, trying for at least presentable.

The banging on the door grows louder, and I can hear Carmenius sweaing again. I realise he probably thinks I'm curled in a corner sobbing and hurry to open the door. He snarls at me to get a move on, sneering in contempt as his unnaturally green-gold eyes linger on my dripping, tangled hair. Stuvek emerges finally from his room still wearing his wrinkled reaping clothes, his hair as mussed as mine, and I guess he's probably spent the last few hours in a fitful sleep.

"Pathetic."

Carmenius glares at both of us, then turns on the two-inch heels of his boots and storms away through to the dining carriage again. Stuvek and I glance awkwardly at one another for a few seconds before he shrugs and trails along behind, shoulders already drooping in defeat. He has probably had the same mental discussion with himself that I had and arrived at the opposite conclusion, that a quick death is his only option.

I realise that I can't afford to worry about my district partner if I want to have any hope of returning alive. I doubt that I would be able to kill him, but since he appears to have already given in to an inevitable end it is likely I won't be faced with that decision. In fact I'm not sure that I am capable of killing in general, though if it comes down to my life or theirs that may change. If I am incredibly lucky I will escape the Cornucopia with sufficient supplies to keep me alive and find a nice corner of the arena to hide in until the others kill each-other off. It has happened before, though only twice that I can recall amongst the forty-odd games that I have seen over the years.

In most of those games it is the harmless looking ones that end up crazed killers, so monstrously unrecognisable that their families would probably have rather seen them die than have to live with their return. Hopefully I can at least avoid that fate; the only thing worse that forcing my family watch me die would be having them see me become a monster. No, I doubt I will be able to kill someone in cold blood, and I very much doubt I would win in a physical fight anyway. Even Stuvek could possibly beat me in a life or death situation, small and weak as he is.

My only option is some sort of trap, though that would require significantly more useful material from the Cornucopia and a phenomenal amount of luck. And in the event that I somehow succeeded and survived I would spend the rest of my life haunted by the faces of the ones I killed, just like Beetee.

The hazy orange light distracts me as I enter the dining carriage and for a moment I am lost in the splendour of architectural achievement lit by a glorious sunset that appears through the windows. I have seen images of the Capitol before, on videos and in books, but the sheer beauty of their achievement leaves my jaw hanging. I can't imagine how many hours of design some of the buildings must have required, never mind the necessary genius to imagine them in the first place.

I can feel the deceleration of the train even more now, and as we pass by the glistening streets people with unnaturally coloured hair and clothing are waving and smiling. One or two are holding signs with the number 3 on it. Our district number. Good to know we have some support, even if it is just a few people among thousands. I suddenly realise that I have been standing with my nose pressed against the glass for several minutes, and quickly step back a little, clasping my hands behind my back so I am not tempted to trace the outlines of the buildings in the air.

"Don't let them get a good look at you or they'll leave."

Carmenius seems to be giving the lunch-table a final going-over before we leave, though dinner can't be far away. Not that I am hungry yet after the mountain of food I ate for lunch a mere few hours ago.

"How do they know where we are from?"

The soft question surprises me for an instant, then I remember that Stuvek is just as much District Three as I am, and probably not stupid.

Carmenius shrugs, his mouth full of fruit, so Beetee answers instead, examining us under his glasses.

"The trains don't all arrive at once. Since the reaping occurs at a specific time in each district, and the travel time is well known it is actually quite easy to work out when each train will arrive. District One is always first, followed by Two and Five usually beats us in by an hour or two. Ten will arrive shortly after dinner, and Seven, Six, and Eight during the night. Those from the outlying districts will be here early tomorrow morning."

He suddenly seems to realise he is lecturing and falls silent, adjusting his thick glasses nervously just as the train pulls to a stop.

"Let's get this over with."

Carmenius sweeps towards the door, boot chains jingling with every step and the rest of us fall in behind. Despite his pessimistic expectations we are greeted with a wave of cheering as we step out into the fading light. It's nothing like the crowd that the Career districts get, which they often show on television, but it reminds me that there are cameras lurking. I try to smile and wave a bit, but Cupros clamps around my shoulders and steers me directly to the waiting car. Beetee seems to be hovering behind Stuvek, forcing him on ahead while Carmenius basks in the attention, flirting with a camera-wielding girl at the front of the barrier who doesn't seem very interested in him.

I'm not sure if I'm amused or disgusted by his manner; the fact that he treats us with contempt but is still willing to use the tiny bit of fame we bring him seems very pathetic to me. It definitely doesn't seem to impress the girl, who looks around my age though much better fed. There is something unusual about her that sets her apart from the surrounding crowd and at a second glance I realise she doesn't appear to have the piercings or tattoos that most of the others are sporting. Her hair is the dark orange colour of gasoline flames but it doesn't look dyed, and while her clothes are the same eye-watering combination of garish hues that seems to be popular in the Capitol, they somehow suit her. She leans past him as I we reach the car waving her camera and yells "District Three, District Three!"

I don't know whether I am supposed to stop or not since she clearly wants a photo, but Cupros seems to recognise her and nudges Beetee and suddenly the four of us are posing for a series of flashes. Carmenius scowls as he sees where the crowd's focus has gone, but pastes on that false smile and bounds over, throwing a suffocating arm around my shoulders and neck and tousling Stuvek's flat dark hair. After a minute or so the flickering camera lights die off and Cupros bundles us forcefully into the car before either of us have a chance to wave or say anything.

I sit in silence during the short car ride, still partially in awe of the incredible cityscape that surrounds us as we drive. Stuvek has returned to trembling in the seat beside me, while ahead Cupros and Carmenius are holding a not quite inaudible argument.

"…don't want to play games with her."

"It looked like that's exactly what you wanted to do."

"That was different. You know who her parents are as well as I do."

"Exactly. I also know they're rich and.."

"…save it for a year that's worth it…"

"…do….job…"

The wail of sirens drowns out the last of the words and our car actually pulls aside to allow a red and blue flashing vehicle to pass. The capitol seal is branded on the side and the drivers are wearing peacekeeper white.

"Those damn kids again," Carmenius mutters as the official-looking car screams out of sight down a side-road. "Vandals and rabble-rousers, think it's all a big joke. Did I tell you that they destroyed my -"

He's forced to drop his story as we pull up outside a circular building painted in eye-popping abstract designs. The remake centre, where for thirty-three years self-absorbed stylists have been re-creating tributes into visions of splendour. There are on average two disastrous outfits a year and I fervently hope it's not our district's turn. Only four years back I remember watching the poor girl from our district wearing nothing but nearly transparent silvery gauze as a representation of a whisp of smoke. Another year there was a boy dressed in see-through plastic packaging who spent the whole chariot ride as red as a District Three sunrise.

Tomorrow morning I will be handed over to a team who will re-create me into something the Capitol finds desirable. I almost laugh as I wonder how many times the words rat-faced will come up.


	4. Chapter 4

The quarters that Carmenius depreciatingly describes as pokey and plain include a large central room with an already laden dining table, several couches and a television. Each of us has our own room complete with a strangely wobbly but surprisingly comfortable bed and a private shower and toilet. Every wall space is covered with soft silken hangings in various shades of blue, purple and green and paintings of geometric shapes or rippling lines. The whole place is equivalent to at least three family units in my apartment block and I struggle to imagine how much bigger and fancier the Training Centre rooms will be if this is 'plain' and 'pokey'.

I pick at the meal for about half an hour, watching in amazement as Carmenius packs down at least as much as he had for lunch despite his snacking all afternoon. The wasteful way these Capitol people eat is disgusting; surely they don't require this much food to live, especially as none of them seem to do anything remotely resembling exercise. Stuvek also seems to have found his appetite at last and is shovelling down the spicy collection of meat and beans almost on pace with our escort.

Finally the ornate water clock which I have been itching to examine closely ever since we entered the room drops over to 7:30 and Beetee switches on the television to finally see our competition.

The show starts as always in District One, the golden light flickering through the flowering trees that ring their central square. Unlike our district the children are not separated into age-groups, but allowed to stand freely in clumps of friends and relatives in a single roped area. This is mostly due to the line of older children at the very front of the enclosure who spend the entirety of their rather eloquent Mayor's recitation of the history of Panem quivering in anticipation. As the woman finishes her speech they all tense further, and the Capitol Escort swiftly plucks the top name from each bowl. The chosen girl fearlessly makes her way to the stage despite her youth, while the boy is from the front of the pack of eighteen-year-olds.

He leaps up the steps with an eager strut and murmurs to the Escort before taking his place. I remember seeing enough District One reapings from previous years to know that the first person to touch the shoulder of the selected tribute at the front of the stage replaces them as a volunteer. This year only the girl steps forward and there is actually an audible murmur of discontent from the gathered boys as they back away from the rope. It always makes me wonder how they can be so keen to risk death, but as always the girls however race forwards the moment the Capitolian lifts his hand from the tribute's shoulder. The front-runner is a typically golden-haired curvy girl who draws a sigh from Carmenius.

"There goes the last chance of sponsorship from that angle," he mutters with a shrug when both of our mentors turn to glare at him.

The boy too is more pretty than handsome as he waves to the crowd, his red-gold hair flicking his shoulders in the breeze, while the presumably silk shirt outlines against his lithe muscular frame. There is something in his smirk though, a cruel arrogance that makes him ugly, and I know already that he is not someone I want to find myself facing in the arena. The pair stand proudly on the stage during the recitation of the treaty, occasionally waving or blowing kisses until the commentators cut to District 2.

The second career district has none of the beauty of its predecessor, and even the people look hard and worn like the stone they produce. The ceremony here is somewhat different and I've never managed to work out how the volunteers are chosen, but there is always only one for each. This year it is a massively broad-shouldered boy with heavy-lidded dark eyes and a rather plain looking girl with a sour expression. Undoubtedly they could kill me a hundred different ways without effort but I have seen much more terrifying tributes from their district in the past and my heart lifts a little.

Our reaping passes by with little comment, though the tear-track on my cheek is as visible as Stuvek's trembling. One of the commentators notices aloud my shared look with my sister, but they seem mostly to be filling time until they cut to District Four.

Again there is little fear in the chosen tributes, a rangy girl and a tiny twelve-year-old boy, and they are both quickly replaced by capable-looking volunteers. The girl in particular moves with a fluid grace that suggests training and smirks at the tanned boy when they shake hands.

The next few reapings stand out little compared to what I have already seen. The boy from Five could easily be from my own district with his slight frame, dark hair and glasses. The pair from Seven are a mismatched tall, blond broad-shouldered eighteen-year-old and a petite thirteen-year-old girl who isn't much over five feet.

The girl from Ten elicits a whistle of approval from Carmenius, her dark hair falling elegantly around long-lashed hazel eyes. Her counterpart is less impressive, and the smallest boy since Stuvek was chosen, making me realise that the male half of this year's tributes are quite physically imposing.

Beetee sits forward with a frown as the pair from Eleven are chosen and when I look at them again I realise there is something unobtrusively dangerous about them. The girl is eighteen and strong, with dark hair and olive skin surrounding wide golden-brown eyes. Her face is set in an ambivalent expression as she mounts the stage, and she shares a brief glance with their only female victor on the way past. The boy is a different matter entirely. He makes the walk from the thirteen-year-olds section to the stage with a nonchalance that is usually reserved for the Career districts and gives a bright winning smile to the crowd that makes him appear even younger. Childish, carefree, innocent. Which means he is either incredibly stupid or very dangerous. For some reason I feel it is the latter.

The pair from Twelve are ordinary by comparison; an underweight eighteen-year-old boy whose best clothes have obviously been cut down to fit and an unusually light-haired girl who takes the selection with wide-eyed fear.

"Well," murmurs Beetee, sitting back in his seat and adjusting his glasses as Cupros hits the mute button. I wait for him to finish the thought but he remains silent, his chin resting on steepled fingers. I guess he is mentally replaying what we just saw and try to do the same in terms of my hopes of survival.

The Careers are undoubtedly dangerous, so that is at least six tributes I will have to be especially wary of. The boys from Six, Seven, Nine and Twelve are my age or older and probably quite strong. The pair from Eleven and perhaps the girl from Ten too. That leaves me ahead of or on par with ten tributes. Better odds than I might have hoped for. Then again the odds haven't been working for me so well today.

-xXx-

I must toss and turn on the wobbly bed for some time because the fascinating clock shows nearly midnight when I slip silently out to the kitchen for a glass of water. The room is dimly lit through the windows, where the distant sounds of music and voices echoes through from the streets below. Our mentors must have departed then, either to bed or to the night-time entertainments of the Capitol. There are no all-purpose cups around so I use a wine-glass from the shelf, watching the procession of turquoise-dyed water droplets marking seconds, minutes and hours as I sip my drink. My fingers itch to take a closer look, maybe examine the internal pump mechanism that is presumably hidden by the metal panelling. Over the years taking things apart has become something of a calming ritual for me, spending sleepless nights surrounded by wires and gears until that moment of understanding clears my mind and allows me to rest. I'm not sure whether I can even remove the clock from the wall but a closer look won't hurt, surely.

I trace the array of tubes and cups that mark out the water path through to the old-fashioned analogue display before focussing on the copper base. It's not hard to find the four tiny screw-holes that hold it in place and I am debating whether to use a knife from the cutlery draw to pry them free when a voice interrupts me.

"Would you like to borrow a screwdriver? I have several in my bag."

I whirl around at the sound and catch one foot behind the other while trying to stand. Before I can stop myself I fall sideways into the beautiful glass-paned clock and bounce off without leaving a scratch. I feel the heat rising to my cheeks as Beetee chuckles softly and offers me a hand up.

"Don't worry, you could probably hit it with a hammer and it wouldn't break. It's beautiful, isn't it? Of course water is the 'in theme' right now."

He reaches out a fingertip to trace the same lines as I did a moment ago, and I consider his words as I look about the room again. Now that he has mentioned it I can see the running theme, from the blue curtains laced with white trim to the tear-drop and wave-shaped furniture. Last year's games involved a rocky island arena patched with picturesque lagoons and waterfalls. Not unexpectedly the victor was from District Four, her final fight with the boy from One ending when she forced him into the river and he was swept off one of those beautiful waterfalls to the rocks below. Naturally the Capitol would continue to bask in it as they seemed to adore the aggressively beautiful Denissa Flow. Perhaps by this time next year the room will be decked with the new 'in thing' based on these games.

"Can't sleep?"

I suddenly remember Beetee standing beside me, who after witnessing by breakdown earlier as well as my current state of mind must think I'm mad.

"It's alright," he adds quickly, gesturing to one of the couches, smiling gently as I give him a measured glance before sitting. "We get a lot of restless tributes for obvious reasons. Are you…are you doing better?"

I nod cautiously, still not entirely sure what he wants from me. Maybe he has already given up saving me as an impossible task and is simply being nice. Maybe he feels obligated to get to know the children in his care before they are sent off to die.

"You seem a lot…well, a lot less afraid. Than before."

I'm not sure that I am any less afraid now than I was a few hours ago, but I am glad that I seem to have gained some of my rational thought processes back. In fact I realise that a greater part of my mental breakdown was due to me viewing the situation as an unsolvable problem, which resulted in my brain switching off. For me, being unable to think through a problem is a terrifying experience in itself. Now that my rational side has taken over I am able to accept the high likelihood of my death, but remain calm enough to try and think of ways around it. Clever things that no-one else will think of.

"If you don't want to talk, that's fine."

And I remember as Beetee starts to rise and leave that I still haven't said a word to him.

"No, it's fine. Sorry, I just…space out sometimes."

It's his turn to be surprised and he blinks several times behind those polished lenses as though trying to see if he was imagining my reply.

"Sorry about before too. I had a bad moment but I think I'm better now. I just realised…"

He probably doesn't want to be reminded of the horrible deaths he is responsible for, so I bite down on the comment and look down. Until a finger raises my chin until our eyes meet. He stares at me for a few seconds longer, before dropping his hand as though burned and curling his other hand around it, wringing out his fingers. As though touching another human being is a terrible or painful act. He smiles slightly as he shakes his head, and leans back into the plush cushions.

"You realised that being a Hunger Games victor is not the same as winning? Yet you are going to try regardless?"

I nod twice, and the small movement causes his eyebrows to leap together above the silver rims.

"Do you have a plan?"

Do I? Not really beyond surviving the bloodbath and finding some way of not dying that doesn't require me to wield a weapon.

"Not yet," is what I say. "I mean, it's sort of hard to plan without knowing what the arena will be like. And what I will have to work with materials wise."

"I might be able to help there," he replies and for a moment I wonder if the Mentors are told in advance what to expect. But that's stupid. No-one but the Gamemakers know as it is one of the most closely guarded secrets and highly bet upon results. But he is clever, maybe he's picked up a hint or two. Or maybe one of his inventions was required.

"Obviously I don't know any specifics," he says, and we both stare briefly out the window as a loud bang is followed by a burst of red and white light. "But they rarely use the same idea two years in a row, so you can probably rule out an island setting. The year before was the rocky grasslands which the ah…audience found somewhat boring. Pontius Vellum is Head Gamemaker again this year, and he is apparently looking for a way to top last year's efforts. I would expect something unusual that we haven't seen in a while. A swampland jungle packed with exotic creatures for example, or something unique like a forest, but with walkways in the treetops. "

I could work with both of these scenarios, I realise. Swamps are full of vines and trees ideal for net or rope traps. Even better, a forest with, say, rope bridges amongst the tree-tops. Why all it would take is careful weakening of the right structures at the right places and I could sit safe at the top of the tallest tree while my pursuers fell to their…

I choke back the sudden bile as I imagine the sweet-faced boy from Eleven or that tiny girl from Twelve plummeting to their death from my ministrations. Stuvek, his broken body lying on the ground, his dark eyes wide in agony. I feel the uncontrollable shudder pass down my spine and clasp a hand over my mouth so I don't ruin the fine leather seat.

"Wiress. Stop. You can't afford to think about it."

The timid arm brushes against me then sets across my back and I lean somewhat awkwardly into the comforting shoulder until I get the shaking under control. I ball my fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands so that the pain helps clear my head. After a minute I am breathing normally again and I reach for the ring around my neck and clasp it through the blouse.

I turn to look at Beetee, who quickly shifts back to the other end of the couch, wringing his hands again as he perches on the edge of the seat. For some reason physical contact seems to really bother him, though he still seems to reach out instinctively, then flinches when he realises what he is doing. Another artefact of his games perhaps. Or the years of watching over young people only to send them off to die.

"Thanks," I murmur, though it is drowned out by another series of explosions and flashes in the night sky. Beetee gestures to the window, and though his words are drowned out I guess he is asking if I want to watch, so I stand and wander over. The colored patterns of light flicker across the sky with incredible symmetry and I find myself momentarily lost in the beauty of the show, sighing as the last flecks of white fade away.

"I've always liked fireworks-" Beetee begins, before another explosion interrupts him. I turn back to the cityscape, expecting a grand finale, but can't see a thing. Then the smoke starts billowing from a building several blocks away and we both watch in silence as the red-orange glow slowly becomes visible. The distant sounds of music and laughter are replaced by wailing sirens and shouting, and we retreat back to the couch. Beetee is frowning again, and I catch part of his muttered comment.

"..stupid kids are going to get caught. Then we'll all be…"

He jerks as he realises he is speaking aloud and forces a smile as he looks at me.

"So. Where were we?"

We were dealing with my sobbing hysterically about the thought of killing my fellow tributes, but that's probably not what he wants to hear. I force all thoughts of living things from my head and imagine an otherwise empty forest filled with rope walkways. Since I have never seen a tree in person I am probably missing some important factors, but as a basic model it should do fine. Really, as long as there are trees and something I can use for rope I have a chance.

"Traps," I say as firmly as I can, digging my nails into the flesh of my inner arm this time to force my mind away from the grisly images.


	5. Chapter 5

Merry Christmas all

* * *

I wake to the now familiar sound of Carmenius swearing as he pounds on the door. It takes me several tries to get up from the wobbly water-filled mattress, and I shade my eyes as the crack of bright golden morning light blinds me through the curtains. There's a saying in District Three, 'rare as a golden sunrise' since the smog layer only departs after a huge storm, and then only for a day or two before the factories choke up the air again. I savour the sight and the warmth of the beam on my face until the hammering returns. I open the door and dodge Carmenius' knuckles as he nearly raps my face, then snarls "Breakfast. Now. Hurry up."

From the dark circles under his eyes, I hazard a guess that he was at one of the many loud parties echoing in the streets, and has probably had less sleep than me. As he turns, I can see a dark bruise spreading down the side of his neck and his spiked hair is flattened at the back. Suppressing a laugh, I follow him out to the kitchen, where the others are already seated and eating. Cupros looks nearly as haggard as our escort, his deep-set eyes bloodshot and his clothes even more wrinkled and stained than before.

Beetee had mentioned last night that the two men left to go drinking as soon as Stuvek and I left for bed. In the end we talked for over an hour, mostly of mundane things such as electronics and engineering. I was surprised to learn that he had heard my name before the reaping. My advanced tech instructor Miss Tafter was a contemporary of his at school and they had stayed in touch despite his Games, occasionally collaborating on a complex project or assignment. Apparently she had mentioned me shortly after Julez, his friend Laue and I scratch-built a vacuum compressor. I had been fourteen at the time, the boys fifteen, and it took us nearly three weeks to construct. The look of astonishment on the teachers' faces had been worth every second when it actually worked.

Every time I seemed to be looking away, Beetee would glance out the window towards the burning building. It made me wonder who 'those kids' were and whether they were the same ones who had vandalised Carmenius's property, but as soon as I started to ask, Beetee quickly mentioned the time and that it would be a long enough day without adding sleep deprivation to our tempers.

Judging by the other two adults it was a good call. I help myself to a bowl of grain cereal mixed with dried fruit, dousing it in milk once I see the three full jugs on the table. Another glass of the amber juice and some strawberries, the likes of which I have only seen in books, is more than enough to start the day. At home we usually have coarse grain cakes or toast for breakfast, occasionally with butter. What I have in front of me is about four breakfasts worth of food, though still less than the others are eating. Looking at the pile of sausages and mushrooms drowning in brown sauce that Carmenius is now plowing through I shudder; I can't bring myself to eat something heavy like meat at this time of day.

As I start eating, Beetee glances at the clock and says, "You have about fifteen minutes before you need to head up to meet your prep team. You will probably not enjoy what they do to you-"

"But complaining won't get you anywhere. So don't," Cupros intercedes sourly.

"Yes, it won't really do much good. But most importantly don't argue with your stylist. Try and work with them as best you can, because they will be interviewed at some stage-"

"And if you act like a brat they won't be nice about you. If they're not nice about you no-one will like you."

"And if no-one likes you no-one will sponsor you," Carmenius adds through a mouthful of sausage, as though neither of us had followed the logic to its conclusion.

All four of us glare at him. Well, three of us glare and Stuvek sort of half rolls his eyes then goes back to inhaling food, but Carmenius just shrugs and wanders over to the television with his plate.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before Stuvek asks, "But what if they want to dress us…you know…like they did Janey. Janey Wallace from-"

"Four years ago. I remember her. Blonde girl, actually quite pretty. Not that it did her any good in the end." Cupros cuts him off with a smirk that turns into a sneer and he pours another dash of spirits into his drink.

I remember her too, our female tribute from the forty-fourth Games. She was the whisp of smoke, Carmenius's first 'lucky charm' as he said in an interview. She lasted until the third day, when the three female Careers whose thunder she had stolen cornered her in a rocky cul-de-sac. It hadn't been pretty and the girl from Two eventually went on to win. Our male tribute didn't even make it to the second night that year, speared by a mad girl from Eight. It was one of the years both Pella and I took tesserae, and we were both especially glad to have been spared after being forced to watch our poor girl's extended death.

Something about the way Stuvek says her name makes me wonder if he knew her personally, though I don't get a chance to ask before Beetee answers him.

"There isn't much you can do except go along with it and make the best of it. It's the same stylists as last year for both of you so they shouldn't be too outrageous. Not by Capitol standards."

Which doesn't really mean much given some of the crazy Capitol fashions I have seen. We are interrupted by a knock on the door, and our two mentors glance at one another. Beetee shrugs, and Cupros stands, glowering at the oblivious Carmenius before opening the door to admit a short, plump man who could be anywhere from eighteen to thirty years of age.

"Heavensbee. What-"

"I need to talk to…oh."

The man stops when he sees us at the table and blinks for a few seconds, then glances at the clock.

"Ah. I'm a little early I see. I'll just-"

"Plutarch!"

Carmenius finally seems to notice our visitor and quickly wipes a smudge of dark sauce from his mouth before setting aside his plate and offering a hand.

"Carmenius Fallow, yes, hello."

The man Plutarch seems less than thrilled as he shakes the proffered hand, which suggests to me that he has met Carmenius before.

"What brings you here? I would have thought your father kept you hopping."

"Yes, well. I need Mr Chan's ah….assistance on a small matter of engineering. Nothing important, just something we need to get working. I thought he might be able to look over it today since he won't be too busy."

In theory our mentors should be spending the day speaking with whatever sponsors our escort has pulled together. It's probably a fair estimate that they won't have too much to do, though I thought Beetee might at least make an effort. Then again, if this Heavensbee fellow, or at least his father is rich, he might be winning help for us by doing them a favour.

"Very well. Carmenius, see that our tributes make it upstairs. It wouldn't do to annoy Lucia or Dido."

Carmenius seems ready to object until our stylists' names are mentioned. Evidently his Capitol credit is not so high that he can afford to offend them because his mouth snaps shut and he pouts but doesn't argue.

"Oh fine," he sighs heavily, picking one last time through the fruit bowl as Beetee and Plutarch leave. With a handful of grapes to sustain him on his long and arduous journey he turns to us and says, "Well, come along. We haven't got all day and the stylists are going to need every second they can get with you two."

-xXx-

After three hours of being scrubbed, drowned and having every bit of body hair removed I have only heard the words rat-faced three times. My prep team seems curiously oblivious to the fact that I might be insulted, and the terms scrawny, underfed, and unfashionably thin have also been bandied about while I have suffered their ministrations. At first the thought of these strangers seeing me naked horrified me, but I quickly realised that they saw me more like a paper to sketch on or a model to be built. An inanimate creation to showcase their creativity and style.

Three scrubs with various stinging and frothing lotions have removed most of the inherent layer of grey from my skin, which now has a faint golden tinge. My hair too has been thoroughly rinsed and cut to just past my shoulder blades. Normally I would complain at such a decision being made for me, but I can see the logic in not having my hair uncontrollably long in the arena. It's about the length I normally trim it back to every few years anyway, and at least it's not physically painful to lose.

The wax strips are another matter entirely. Seventeen years of playing with moving parts and electronics has left me with a decent pain threshold when it comes to minor stabs, cuts and burns, and my hands, in particular my fingertips, are covered in tiny scars. Yet the ripping of my hair and associated skin seems to burn more than catching myself with the soldering iron, perhaps because I have no control over it. Eventually I just give in and let the tears flow, biting down on my lip until it bleeds.

"Now dear, we can't have that," trills the woman, Juliette I think, as she swipes a white cloth across my face to clear the blood. A drop of stinging liquid makes me yelp but seals the cut, leaving her to tut instead about my arms and hands. Several rows of clear crescent marks trace down my wrist and across my palms in shades of mottled red and blue, remnants from my fingernails last night. The side of my left hand also has the largest scar across it from a slipped tool a few months ago. At least I don't get a complaint about bitten fingernails, a habit I broke only a few years ago thanks to some particularly foul-tasting engine cleaner.

Eventually they pronounce me as good as I'm going to get and the smallest and most obnoxious of the trio leaves to fetch my stylist while Juliette and fat-cheeked Marius finish trimming and shaping my nails.

"Too round now to do anything silly," Juliette tells me as she covers the wrist markings with another layer of make-up. Marius just grins, his wide mouth and prominent eyes outlined in a shade of blue that makes him look like one of the drowned corpses from last year's Games. Then again, maybe that's the point.

The door opens and the third man, whose name I still haven't caught precedes Dido through the portal. She has been a District Three stylist on and off for over a decade now, and I have seen her in a number of interviews but meeting her in person is an interesting experience. For a start the TV cameras don't show that even in four inch heels she is shorter than me. The stark colourlessness of her attire and features is striking, especially the lock of dyed black hair that sits smoothly over her bleached white skin to cover her left eye. Her clothes are a robe-like affair of black and white layers looped about with spiked silver chains that continue up from her shoulders to her ears and across her cheeks to the nose-rings. Even the one eye I can see is a pale colourless grey, which narrows as she examines my 'scrawny, underfed frame.'

She circles my naked form twice, then turns to Marius and says, "Fetch it up now, we will need the extra length."

To me she adds, "You, sitting room. You may replace the robe if you wish."

I snatch up the thin robe and tie it before she changes her mind, and follow Juliette's gesture to the side-room. Two chairs sit astride a table laden with plates that Dido considers with a derisive sniff then presses a button on the wall to summon a white-clad Avox.

"I thought I specifically requested salad. You will go fetch me one now. Quickly."

She settles herself in one of the chairs, so I take the other and eye the food, not sure if I'm permitted to eat. Dido catches my glance and says, "Oh go ahead if you must. I wouldn't eat it all though unless you want to stand bloated on your chariot tonight."

"Is bloating going to be noticeable in what I am wearing?" I ask cautiously as I make a start on the creamy pasta dish. It's so good that I think I might risk looking a few pounds heavier than I am. Certainly everyone else seems to think that I need more weight.

Dido blinks for a second, then says, "Well no, but that is beside the point. You are scrawny, yes, but extra weight around your stomach is unattractive even if no-one else can see it."

I can think of several arguments to this logic and take a large mouthful of pasta to prevent accidentally blurting one out. At least I know I'll be wearing something vaguely modest. Dido's salad arrives before she can expound on the point and we eat in silence for a short while, her constant staring making me ever more uncomfortable. Eventually I put down the three-quarters empty plate just to avoid the accusing gaze.

"It's a pity you're so tall," she says suddenly as she places aside her half-eaten salad.

"I have become used to the small tributes and now the dress will require modification. And your face is too pinched to be really attractive. This outfit would have worked much better with last year's contender."

I wonder if I am supposed to apologise for not having the appearance she had hoped for when she adds with a sigh, "At least you will look better than Lucia's efforts. That boy had no redeeming features; at least you have nice hair to work with. Pity about your face though. It's so…."

"Rat-like?" I ask in the driest tone I can manage.

Her mouth twitches, in laughter or disapproval I'm not sure, then quickly settles back to her characteristic emotionless mask. With a long-suffering sigh she rises and says, "Very well. We will make do with what we have I suppose. Come along."


	6. Chapter 6

One last update to see out the New Year. See you all in 2013

* * *

My outfit for the opening ceremony is far from what I would consider wearing if I were given the choice, but I have to concede that it could be a lot worse. The sleek silver shirt and leggings that go on first must be made from silk for they are beautifully soft against my still-smarting skin. Over this sits a light plastic frame which encircles my body in hoops of increasing diameter to just above the floor. Finally the actual dress is slid over the top, a sleek affair of copper material that, when drawn tightly over the hoops appears to be…

"A copper coil," I say as Marius ties the draw-strings down my back.

Dido actually smiles for a split second, apparently pleased that I have comprehended her artistic masterpiece. In return I don't mention that copper coils in engines tend to keep the same radius for the length of the spiral. No reason to put off my stylist now that she might actually say something good about me in an interview.

Realistically, the only tactic I have is to appear clever, and an outfit like this will help remind the Capitol audience that my district uses brains over brawn to win. It won't convince many to draw their attention from the flashy Careers or one of the strong-looking boys from the labouring districts, but it might make one or two people take notice.

The main problem with the outfit seems to be with the shoes. It appears that the dress was supposed to reach the floor, with the bottom hoop removable for a smaller tribute. I am two inches taller than anyone Dido has ever had to dress and my feet and ankles are clearly visible. Unfortunately none of the shoes that they have to hand match the outfit, and my suggestion that no-one will see my feet when I'm standing in the chariot meets four blank stares before they return to bustling. Eventually Dido gives up and has an extra band of fabric stitched to the bottom, and spends the next half-hour muttering under her breath about the destruction of her artistic creation.

Finally they make it to the head-piece, a wire-mesh cap with two large antennae ending in steel balls. Again I refrain from mentioning how inaccurate this is and smile with them all when they realise that the slight curl of my hair is ideally matched to wrap up the length of the twin metal spokes, continuing the coil theme.

Another hour of having my face filled with powders and glosses to 'make me look healthy' and I am pronounced ready with nearly twenty minutes to spare. Standing in front of the mirror, I can't honestly complain too much about the final effect. The electrical theme will remind the crowd of my greatest advantage and the ornate headpiece draws attention from my rather plain features. It may not win me sponsors from the howling mob of wealthy society, but it won't lose me any either.

-xXx-

We meet Stuvek and Lucia at the elevator and I bite my lip again to prevent myself from laughing or crying. Poor Stuvek appears to be nearly collapsing under the weight of his outfit, a boxy metallic frame with a dozen spindly metal arms jutting out the sides and a run of multicoloured circles down his chest. A modified warning light is tied over his sleek black hair and appears on the verge of slipping off. I see Dido raise an eyebrow and smirk at Lucia's responding scowl as we ride down to the bottom floor of the Remake Centre.

Beetee and Carmenius meet us at the chariot, the latter's snort of disgusted amusement loud and clear over the bustle of preparation. Only three other districts are already here, which means the pairs from one and four easily spot Stuvek and burst out laughing too. His cheeks flame red and his head droops in shame, which causes the poorly-secured warning light hat to slide off and shatter on the hard floor.

"You stupid boy!" Shrieks Lucia as she swoops down to collect the pieces. "You have ruined my masterpiece."

Stuvek flinches back and mumbles an apology as Lucia continues berating him and the watching Careers laugh even louder.

"Masterpiece?" I hear Beetee murmur dryly to Dido beside me, and she shrugs and mutters back, "Apparently so. It will not make much difference I think."

A sudden flurry of movement by the elevators seems to remind everyone why we are here and Beetee helps both women lift Stuvek up into place. As Beetee turns to help me up too I can see another problem.

"We're not going to fit."

The stylists, who have already started bickering stop and turn to face me. I gesture to the remaining space in the chariot's carriage which is clearly smaller than my skirt hoops. The pair glance at one-another then Lucia snarls, "This is your fault. You should have made those hoops smaller, and besides they look ridiculous on her beanpole frame."

"_My_ tribute looks ridiculous? At least she isn't wearing a mutated public lavatory. Besides it's your boy who is taking up all the space."

"Well I didn't think you would need it. Girls from Three are always so wretchedly small."

"Perhaps you should have asked."

While they argue back and forth I return to examining the problem. We have just under five minutes before our chariot rolls down the street in front of several hundred thousand Capitolians, and if both Stuvek and I can't fit in it then it will undoubtedly mean trouble for us later on.

The frame of Stuvek's costume appears to be a similar plastic to mine, with the heavy metallic cloth drawn tightly over to appear solid. In order to get the sharp edges the plastic struts are rectangular rather than rounded, and I think back to the frame I am wearing, where each loop had a clip running down my back to complete the circle. The clips themselves are solid but just to the side there is a little give.

"I've got it," I announce and the bickering again stops. Lucia glares at me, while Dido maintains her emotionless pose and I swallow nervously, hoping that my idea will work.

"We just need to angle it so that the corner of Stuvek's box pushes against here, so that they bend a little."

I gesture to the line where the most give should be, but the two women just stare blankly. Eventually Beetee clears his throat and we all turn to find him nodding.

"It should work," he murmurs, stroking his chin and adjusting his glasses absently. "Yes, if you just hop out there Stuvek and we put Wiress in first."

We make the swap and Beetee directs the sharp corner of the box-frame into the back of my hoops. After several adjustments we are both in, though I am uncomfortably pressed against the edge of the carriage. At least I don't have to worry about falling out.

We are ready none too soon as the great doors swing open to the thunderous applause and cheering. District One leads off as always, the girl in a provocatively cut golden mesh gown, the boy wearing nothing but a cape around his shoulders and silvery leggings, both laughing and waving already.

Two follows them twenty seconds later, both standing proudly erect and grim-faced in matching grey. They are obviously going with the stoic and deadly warrior tact, which works a lot better for the man than the girl.

And then we are off, the soot-grey horses matching perfectly the colour of our district as they prance out into the crowd-lined street. A few people point and laugh at Stuvek, who is forced to cling to the chariot railings with both hands in order to not fall off the rear of the carriage, but for the most part the sea of faces washes past in a roar of sound and colour.

I keep one hand bracing so that I am not completely crushed into the front of the chariot, but I try to smile and wave a bit with the other. An extra roar starts up behind us about thirty seconds later to mark Four's entry. As the reigning victor district they will always get good support from the crowd, but a glimpse at one of the screens as we pass shows me the greater reason for the cheering.

Both tributes are practically naked, the girl with just a sash of blue-green fabric around her waist and a pair of shells over her lightly muscled chest. The boy has only a short white loincloth which enhances his deeply tanned golden-brown skin and sun-streaked hair. They both look heroic, deadly, beautiful. Like they have already won. The only thing going against them right now is that it probably won't be another water-based arena this year.

Then I catch a glimpse of our chariot in one of the screens ahead. It is clear that Stuvek is uncomfortably balanced, though this is probably insignificant to the ridiculous outfit. On the other hand the additional pressure against my hoop dress makes the copper spiral effect even more pronounced and I do hear the occasional cry of "District Three!" in the crowd.

By the time we reach the City Circle the arm I am using to brace myself is numb to the elbow and my neck is starting to ache from the heavy headpiece. I can hear Stuvek's whimpers even over the noise of the crowd as he strains to stay upright. It's probably the most weight his scrawny arms have ever had to hold and I'm impressed that he has made it this far.

"Only a few more minutes," I whisper to him and myself as the line of chariots draws around the Circle and comes to a halt. The hush soon falls as President Snow rises to give the traditional speech and the camera crews begin their usual close-ups of each pair of tributes on the big screens.

We still look somewhat ridiculous crammed into the too-small space, but as I see the shots of the other chariots I realise we are not the only ones. The tiny girl from Seven is practically collapsing under the weight of her branch and leaf headpiece, both tributes from Eight are wearing what appears to be a fabric scrap heap and the beauty from Ten has only a series of thin leather straps that leaves little to the imagination. Apart from the Careers the only ones who catch my eye are the well-muscled boy from Seven whose tree costume suits him much better and the pair from Eleven. The girl is bedecked in a golden mesh dress fixed around a hexagonal pattern, while the boy is all in green leaves with a feathered cap that makes him look even younger than his thirteen years.

The anthem blares out suddenly and I quickly brace again as the chariots make one last circuit before carrying us to our final home before the games begin.

-xXx-

"I think my hands are stuck like this," Stuvek says wearily as our stylists weave through the crowded room. Lucia is still looking sour, while Dido's immaculately schooled features have a touch of smugness as they squeeze past the old woman from Four. Cupros appears behind them reeking of spirits, but he is tall and strong enough to pry my district partner's fingers free of the railing and help him down. He offers me a hand too and I try not to look surprised at the courteous behaviour that only Beetee has shown until now. Thinking of our other mentor I glance around the room, surprised that he isn't here to meet us and eventually spot him at the far end of the hall talking to the lithe woman from District Eleven. Seeder Dace won about six years before Beetee, using her knowledge of poisonous plants and fungi to set deadly traps and trick several others into accidentally poisoning themselves, so it's not surprising that they're friendly. Their most recent victor is also there, waving his arm stump about to make a point while the boy laughs.

"Come on then. Let's go," Cupros grunts as he heads off towards the lifts, leaving us to trail behind.

"I can't wait to get out of this thing," Stuvek mutters as we fall in behind our mentor, and I glance back to where Beetee is still preoccupied. The girl from Eleven has moved up to stand beside Seeder and Beetee and suddenly I am struck by the physical resemblance of her to her mentor, and how comfortable she seems with her. If she was Seeder's daughter the commentators would have been all over it at the Reaping, so I guess she is a cousin or niece. It certainly explains Beetee's reaction to her when we were watching and why he is talking to his friend now.

Suddenly I realise that Cupros, Stuvek and the stylists are nearly to the lifts and hurry to catch up with them before I am left alone between three Career groups. The short ride to the third floor is smooth and silent and I feel the sudden urge to examine the lift mechanisms as we pile out into a suite of splendorous proportions. Everywhere I look there is some gadget of technological interest and I think I might have to take Beetee up on his offer of borrowing his toolkit.

The shower in my expansive room is pure bliss and I quickly find a combination of temperatures, soaps and sponges that is comfortable and will get rid of the layers of powder on my face. Again there are a multitude of outfits to choose from and I opt for the softest shirt I can find and some practical trousers. A machine in the corner has a wide range of drinks available and I procure a coffee, gasping at the rich taste. So different to the watery bitter drink that we often use to work through long factory shifts at home.

The knock on the door is much softer than I have become used to and it's Beetee's gentle voice that summons me to dinner. There is no sign of Carmenius at the laden table, though both mentors throw regular glances at his empty seat. Dido too has opted to join us and informs us with only a trace of smugness that Lucia has a terrible headache and won't be making it. Our meal is a rich dark meat that Cupros identifies as lamb, with a creamy sauce and roast vegetables. Dido again sends one of the white-clad Avoxes for a lighter option and spends the meal picking over a handful of leafy greens. I can't decide if this willingness to starve herself when she has all this food available to her annoys me more or less than Carmenius' gluttony so I stick to emptying my plate.

They show recaps of the opening ceremony on television at nine, but I don't really want to watch us looking stupid amongst the splendour again and from Stuvek's hunched position I doubt he does either. As a compromise Beetee turns on the smaller screen in the kitchen, but mutes the volume so that Dido can relive her glory and we can turn our backs and pretend it's not there. After half a dozen times of glancing over when Dido sighs or smirks I give in and drag my chair around so I can half-see the screen. I actually don't look too bad; certainly not as bad as I thought. A face from the crowd leaps out as we round the City Circle, her bright red hair a beacon in the sea of blue and green. A few seats along is another familiar face, the young man Plutarch who interrupted our breakfast this morning. I turn to Beetee and ask, "Isn't that-?"

"Where has Carmenius got to?" Cupros cuts me off quickly.

"Who cares," I hear muttered softly from both sides of the table and Stuvek and Dido stare at one another for a few seconds in shock.

"I believe he is…ah…meeting with some prospective sponsors," Beetee says and Cupros snorts into his drink.

"Drinking himself to death more like. Might have to join him later."

Silence falls and I pick at the crumbs of the fluffy white dessert for several minutes as the screen shows the end of the parade.

"So what now?" Asks Stuvek and our mentors share a series of glances, raised eyebrows and scowls before Cupros snarls "Oh fine then. Boy, you're with me."

Stuvek actually looks a little hurt and Cupros softens his expression as much as I have ever seen.

"Look, do you have any skills in electrics? Engineering? No. So there is not much point you working with Beetee. Miss Ling here does so it makes sense that he is her primary mentor. Which leaves me to come up with some way of keeping you alive. We'll take the living room."

He storms out, back to his usual sour self and Stuvek slinks after him. I watch them go, trying to remind myself that Stuvek can't live if I am going to survive.

"Wiress?"

The worried note in Beetee's voice prompts me to force a smile and I say "I'm ok."

He nods, but doesn't look convinced. "So, tomorrow. Training. Have you thought what you want to focus on?"

All I know about the three days training is that a variety of skills are offered with specialists to teach us.

"Um, traps I guess?"

Beetee shakes his head. "There won't be a station specifically dedicated to traps. I would suggest a combination of ropes and knots, shelter and camouflage. Also make sure you get a good look at the edible plants station. With your memory it is worth learning them and the combination of species can be the best hint to the Arena design."

This sounds like just about the best advice I've had so far, though I'm not sure I'll be able to get a hint of the surrounds from the plant types. But knowing how to find food will be essential and the fact that I didn't think of it myself is a little worrying.

"You have to stay alive to stay alive Wiress. Never forget that."

"I won't," I reply, mentally structuring a list.

Edible plants and animals. If they have information on poisonous plants I'll do that too. How to find and purify water. Ropes, shelter, camouflage. More than enough to learn in three days, though probably not enough to impress the Gamemakers.

"While you are training make sure you watch the other tributes. Learn what you can of them without letting them see if possible. Every bit of information is valuable. I would also suggest trying at least one of the weapons stations."

I stare at him in surprise, but both he and Dido are nodding.

"You can't let the other tributes know your plan. To be convincing you will need to look like a typical out of your depth tribute who is convinced you won't survive at first. Act meek and shy and the overconfident ones will ignore you. If you let them see you failing at something they are good at then they won't bother looking to see if you are any good at the skills you really plan on using to survive. Then in your final session with the Gamemakers you can show them they were wrong."

It makes sense in an odd way, especially since…

"By then it will be too late for them to find out what I'm good at."

I will have watched them and learned what I need to know but they won't get the chance to do the same.

"Exactly," Beetee says. "You don't want so high a training score that they think you're a threat, but you want enough that they will be wary about taking you out with a direct attack. A score of six or seven would be ideal."

Six or seven. If I show the Gamemakers a few ways of taking out an opponent without having to touch them I can surely make that. I remember making a sling trap from my bedsheets to catch Balia when she was little and tried to sneak up on me when I was sleeping. It should be easy enough to recreate. There are other designs, from previous games and from various mechanical components that I have studied, but the thought of my sister brings another question to mind.

"What about an alliance with one of the other tributes?"

District Eleven would be my pick, since Beetee already knows her mentor and she seems capable.

"Perhaps-" Dido starts, but Beetee cuts her off sharply.

"Absolutely not."

We both stare at him and he takes a deep breath and removes his glasses, polishing them on his shirt.

"Absolutely not," he repeats more calmly as he resettles them and leans forward to look me in the eye. "If you want to get out of the Arena using traps you can't afford to have friends. Because if you have friends, you will need to tell your friends where your traps are and how they work. And if it comes down to you and them….well you're smart enough to figure that out. No allies."

Of course he is right. I can't afford to think of anyone but myself from this point on. The fact that Stuvek seems like a decent kid is not my problem. The fact that the tiny girl from Seven and the sweet-faced boy from Eleven are barely older than my sister is irrelevant. The fact that all but six of us had no choice in this fight to the death is no reason to show mercy.

I am not good at ignoring facts, but I will have to try and forget if I am to survive. From this point on I will be emotionless and cool and will do whatever it takes to win. I almost convince myself as I head for bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Just a short one, though the next one shouldn't take as long.

Thanks to those who reviewed.

* * *

Clearly Cupros found whatever drinking hole Carmenius had decided to try and drown himself in because our escort is already at the breakfast table when I rise. He looks no less haggard than yesterday morning so I say nothing as the young white-clad server loads up a bowl of cereal and fruit under my direction. My father and my sister Pella have always been particularly grouchy in the morning and I have long since learned that ignoring them is the best way to deal with it.

The sudden thought of my family makes me wonder how they are doing now. Pella and Ezra will already be at the factory, their shifts starting two hours ago. Mother will be up preparing grain cakes for Balia and Malcy before Balia leaves for school and Father will have returned from the night shift that he works every other week. Will one of them look out the window and see the sunrise as I see it now? Probably not as the smog cloud stains the windows grey and covers the sun, and the Capitol is somewhat Northeast of District Three.

I see in my mind's eye Balia singing and feeding Malcy while he stares adoringly back and suddenly feel myself tearing up. I choke down a sob, pretending that I have inhaled some of my breakfast and by the time Carmenius looks up from his coffee I have managed to get myself under control. The last thing I need is him complaining about my uselessness.

I distract myself by watching the morning light play off the various architectural features of the city from the balcony. The murmur of voices trickles down from the floor above and from the tone and clarity I guess they are the girl from District Four and her mentor, Mags. I can't catch the words from the old woman who has been around for as long as I can remember on TV, but the girl's half of the conversation is perfectly clear in the crisp morning air.

Beetee's words from last night reminding me to learn all I can about my opposition prompts me to listen in, especially as the girl from this district was last year's winner.

"I told you I don't care."

Mumbling from Mags.

"I said I would do whatever it takes and I mean it. Maybe-"

More mumbling.

"I'm glad she's not. She's a stupid stuck up sea-cow that got lucky. Any other year she wouldn't have made it five days."

They must be discussing last year's victor Denissa Flow, who has not yet made an appearance. Which is strange, I suddenly realise as victors almost always mentor the year after they win. Occasionally they are too badly damaged to take on the role, like the boy from Seven a few years back who lost his eyes and most use of his vocal cords to ferocious knife wounds in the final fight. His blind thrust with a spear killed his opponent, but it was two weeks before they showed his victory 'interview' where he didn't speak a word.

"It's still better than the alternative I had. Did you see who my uncle wanted me to-"

"Wiress?"

I turn around as Beetee knocks on the half-open glass door to get my attention and the conversation above my head suddenly falls silent. I doubt they will talk so openly now that they realise someone might be listening so I head inside, handing my empty bowl and cup to one of the Avoxes.

A glance at the clock tells me it's ten minutes to nine, later than I thought. I duck back to my room to grab a tie for my hair, though the loose dark shirt and trousers will do well enough for training.

Carmenius, still bleary eyed and scowling, herds us to the elevator and we make the short ride to the basement floor in silence. A pair of red-shirted men attach a cloth square with the number three to our backs and we join the group of tributes in the middle of the gymnasium.

I look around while we wait, fixing the positions of the stations in my mind. The ropes station seems the logical place to start as I will definitely need the skills and it offers a good view of the sword and spear stations. The tributes from Two and Four are already peering at the weapons while we wait for the last few groups to arrive. Just before ten the pairs from One and Nine appear and the head trainer steps into the centre of our half-circle.

"Listen up," he says, his deep voice cutting over the soft murmur of conversation from the duo from One. "My name is Micah and I'm in charge of making sure you have some sort of training before we set you in the Arena.

"There are three types of stations: Weapons, survival, and fitness. It's in your best interests that you try exercises from each."

The last is directed at the Career group who smirk or roll their eyes. Their loss.

"Every station has a skilled trainer who will teach you basics as well as more advanced techniques if they see you are capable. If you want to learn something specific, ask and we'll see what we can do."

He gestures to the balcony, where a group of men and women are looking on in silent curiosity.

"Our esteemed colleagues will be watching and periodically consulting with the trainers in order to evaluate your performance. Lunch will be at one and you will have private evaluation sessions on the third afternoon. There is to be no physical contact between tributes, and any violations of this rule will result in dire consequences."

The boy from One pouts at this and I reaffirm my decision to stay as far away from him as possible. I glance around the faces of the others as Micah points out the individual stations. Stuvek and I are on the end of the arc next to the pair from Six. The boy is a few inches taller than me and his dark olive skin shows muscular lines that suggest hard work. The girl is barely five-three and so emaciated that she looks like a gust of wind will blow her sideways. Her eyes dart nervously towards the doors and far walls while the boy stares resolutely at the floor. Past them are the tributes from Twelve, both as scrawny as I am, though I remember from the reaping that the boy is eighteen. The girl is one of the smallest people in the room, and I see her lower lip trembling the way Balia's does when she is trying not to cry and I yank my gaze away from her to the next pair.

The duo from Eleven will bear close watching to confirm my suspicion about the girl's relationship with her mentor. She is also 5'9" and sturdily built, probably thanks to the extra food she would have had access to being related to a Victor. She too seems to be glancing around the other tributes' faces while waiting to begin. The boy's carefree cheerfulness suggests knowledge of some sort of skill as he is shorter than me and lightly built.

"So get to it!" Micah finishes enthusiastically and the circle breaks apart. As expected the Careers head straight for the weapons so I aim for the ropes and knots station. Stuvek tails awkwardly behind me and I wince at the thought of having to tell him to go away. I decide to let it be for now, speaking only to the trainer who begins showing me some basic knots to practice and after ten minutes my district partner gets bored and leaves. No-one else is nearby so I quickly finish the knot that I was pretending to struggle with and ask the trainer to show me something more complicated. He agrees with a wink and I spend the next hour learning half a dozen useful knots and a simple snare.

While I practice I keep an eye on the nearby weapons stations where the majority of the tributes are gathered. The boys from One and Four both seem to favour spears, wielding them with ease as they spar against assistants. The sour-faced girl from Two is also practising with spears, though in her case she seems to prefer the lighter throwing ones. The girl from Four who I overheard earlier this morning joins her and appears to have deadly accuracy with the projectiles. The enormous boy from Two is the only one of the Careers practising swords, showing nothing fancy but holding back two assistants with ease.

Two other tributes are also taking sword lessons, though they show little skill. Beyond them are the knife stations where half a dozen tributes are learning something of the basics of the most common weapon in the arena. Something I should probably do at some point in order to appear convincingly useless.

I move on to the edible plants station, where the trainer is finishing up with the wide-eyed girl from Five. The woman leaves her to sort the various plants into their categories and comes over to me. I spend the rest of the morning memorizing each of the leaves and berries presented to me, as well as their properties. From the vast variety of species I doubt the arena will be snowy or rocky. Beetee's suggestion of a swamp or jungle seems likely given the range of bright coloured berries and fruits, both edible and deadly poison. The red and orange berries in particular are a dangerous mix as the edible ones can only be told apart from their lethal counterparts by a slight difference in the leaves of the plant they grow on. It would be so easy after a day or two without food to mistake them, so undoubtedly they will be common.

An idea springs to mind as the woman finishes her introductory spiel with the pair from Seven and I call her over to where I have them sorted.

"Yes District Three?"

I figure playing confused is my best bet and put on a frown of concentration as I hold out the sprigs containing the red berries.

"I know that you said these can be told apart by the leaves, but what if the leaves are damaged. I mean if something breaks off the extra points is there another way of knowing which one is edible? Like is one tree bigger than the other?"

The woman smiles patronizingly and says, "Most berries don't grow on trees dear. They grow on shrubs or bushes. In this case creepers, so they will be wrapped around their host trees and will vary with size depending on that."

"What's a host tree?" I ask as innocently as possible, but she seems to realize she has said too much and shrugs.

"I guess you will find out soon enough. All I can say is if you're not sure don't eat it."

She uses the arrival of the girl from Eleven to make her escape, though the conversation wasn't wasted. I now know for a fact there will be trees of a decent size and also where to look for the berries. The fact that the plants are creepers suggests flexible stringy growth that can be used for rope, another important tool for my plans.

Lunch is called and I move with the rest to the adjoining room, gathering up a plate and claiming a seat at the end of a table far from where the other tributes have settled. As expected the Careers are sitting together, all six seemingly friendly at this early date. Not a good sign for me, as a split Career pack means more chance of escaping at the Cornucopia while they argue.

Stuvek is sitting with the boys from Eight and Nine, all three scrawny and demure, though I remember seeing the trio on the climbing and agility equipment before. Maybe one of them will be fast enough to outrun their deadlier competition when the time comes.

The girls from Twelve and Nine are also eating together, while Districts Eleven and Seven are keeping company with their partner. I feel suddenly lonely, especially coming from a large family where I always had someone to talk to, and I have to remind myself that these people can't be my friends because they will have to die for me to live.

The food becomes dry and tasteless at this thought and I push aside my half-full plate in disgust. I can't afford not to eat now, when in a few days I will be starving but I just can't force down another bite while imagining the others in this room lying speared or broken. Such thoughts don't seem to be bothering the Careers, who are a rowdy group in the centre of the room, bandying friendly insults and jibes that are becoming louder and louder as time progresses.

"Yeah? And who were you sparring against, your Mom?"

The pretty boy from District One smirks as the boy from Four launches himself across the table, and I find myself smiling too. Maybe they're not such good friends.

The girl from Four grabs her partner's shirt and hauls him back into his seat, replying "I've seen his Mom and she could take you blindfolded. But then she's probably not as good at plaiting pretty hair like yours."

Now it's the boy's turn to flare up.

"What did you say? No girl could beat me."

"Only 'cause you're not worth the effort."

The boy from Two raps the table and they both stop glaring at one another to look at him.

"Save it for the Arena. We'll find out then, and the winner can die to me."

One snorts and Four rolls her eyes, but they fall back to normal conversation and the rest of the room releases their collectively held breaths. Undoubtedly the other tributes are sharing the same thought that I have: If I am lucky I might be able to escape and hide long enough for the Careers to kill each other off.


	8. Chapter 8

I spend most of the afternoon between the camouflage, first aid, water and insect stations, using every memorization trick I learned in school to imprint the vital knowledge on my brain. I learn how to purify water with iodine, and also how to use flaky yellow paper to test whether the water is infested by certain parasites. I doubt I will have access to the test paper in the Arena but the knowledge of the danger itself is useful, as is the information that stagnant pools are more prone to the parasites than running water.

The wide variety of insects continues to suggest a jungle-style arena, especially as few of them are safe to consume. Most of the insects seem to be of the winged variety, ranging from the midges that will leave an itchy but harmless bite to the deadly tracker jackers and black-furred spiders. Only the thick white grubs and large brown-backed crickets are safe to eat, though I will need to be a lot hungrier than I am before I get that desperate.

As I angle back towards the camouflage station I notice a lull in fighting training area. All three male Careers are lifting weights, trying to out-do one another in feats of manliness. The huge boy from Two seems to be winning, though Four isn't far off and pretty boy from One looks rather put out. The girls from One and Two have chased the smaller boys from the climbing area while the aggressive girl from Four is working with the surprised looking first-aid trainer.

The pretty girl from Ten is trying out some basic sword swings and the chirpy boy from Eleven is toying with a bow as his District partner walks away from the station. Otherwise the fighting stations are free. Hesitantly I change course, aiming initially for the knife stand. Out of the corner of my eye I see the girl from Two nudge her friend and drop free of the netting to aim in my direction. I don't really want to have them looming over me, so I stop where I am and face the nearest trainer, who happens to be spears.

"These might be a little heavy for you darlin'," he drawls as I approach, but I ignore him and select the shortest shaft from the rack. It's heavier than I expect and I know I'll look ridiculous, but since that's the point I take a deep breath and continue.

"Can you show me the basics please? I want to learn."

"Alright, though don't say I didn't warn you."

He begins showing me how to set my body for a thrust and how to strike up with the power from my legs as well as my arms. I take a few practice stabs at the dummy, resulting in two blows that glance off the rubbery surface and one that sinks awkwardly into the ribcage area. The Career girls laugh and the trainer shrugs helplessly as I drag the spear backwards, nearly tripping myself with the end. That's fine. I've accomplished what I needed, and can now go back to learning the things that will truly be important for my survival.

I head back towards the survival area, pausing when a gleeful shout attracts my attention. Eleven seems to have found his range with the bow and sinks half a dozen arrows into the circular target, though only one hits the inner circle.

I doubt he is much stronger than me, and my years of mechanical experience should help with aiming so I decide to give it a go. The boy double-takes when I stand next to him then grins and offers a cheerful hand.

"Hi, I'm Sparrow. You're District Three right?"

And in one sentence the boy has undone two day's subconscious effort from my brain to think of my fellow tributes only as district numbers. By knowing their names it makes them real people that will have to die, at my hand or someone else's, but they are no longer inanimate opponents. From the glint in the boy's powder-blue eyes I guess this is part of his plan. Two can play at that game.

"Wiress," I reply with a smile, "District Three, yes. You're Eleven right? With Seeder and Chaff?"

His face flickers with uncertainty at the names of his mentors, as though wondering if I have been watching him when in truth I only recognised them through circumstance. Then he brightens again and says, "That's right. Your mentor was talking to us last night. Beetee isn't it? And Cupros. Beetee seems nice."

It takes all my self control to not suck in a gasp as the trainer taps me on the shoulder and offers me a bow and quiver. This is one clever little boy beneath his childishly innocent exterior. He is watching and planning just as much as I am and his size and youth are not deterring him from his hope to survive. I make a mental note to watch him doubly well as planned and turn my attention to the trainer.

By the end of the day I have managed not to embarrass myself too badly at archery, and have a basic idea of weaving leafy vines and branches to make a screen. Stuvek looks exhausted as we seat ourselves for dinner and gives me a shaky smile when he sees me watching him.

"That climbing wall sure takes it out of you. We were trying some sword-fighting too though I wasn't as good as Morris. He's from Nine."

"Making friends?" Beetee asks as our mentors join us at the table. Cupros just grunts and dumps his entire hip flask into his juice. Stuvek shrugs apologetically and says, "Well it's not like anyone stronger wanted to team up. At least there's two less people trying to…you know…"

He drops off into silence and we stay that way through the soup course.

"So how did you go Wiress?" Beetee asks as the Avoxes serve up slices of quail on a bed of salad.

"I tried a few things, mostly survival stuff. You know, edible plants and the like."

"I saw you at the archery station," Stuvek adds around a mouthful. "You didn't look half bad at shooting."

Beetee's eyebrows shoot up and I shrug and reply, "Yeah but you obviously didn't see me try the spears. I nearly put one through my own leg. Right when the girls from One and Two were watching too."

I try to make it sound bitter, though Beetee clearly understands and gives me a brief nod when the others look away.

"And the other tributes?" Cupros asks. Undoubtedly he, like Beetee suggested using the time to find out about our opposition.

"Well the Careers all seem to be working together," Stuvek starts.

"Though they had a bit of a fight at lunch, "I add. "One and Four don't seem to get along very well and the boy from Two is all arrogance."

"That's not unexpected," says Beetee. "After all, it was Denissa from Four that beat out Eros from One in the final fight last year."

I had forgotten that, but it makes sense of why the pretty boy from One was so defensive about losing to a girl.

We continue the question and answer session throughout the meal, reporting everything we saw from preferred weapons to who was speaking with whom during the day. Stuvek learned from his companions that the girl from Eight was a crybaby, while the auburn-haired girl from Nine was confident about some secret skill.

He also spent some time watching the pair from Eleven, who seemed competent at everything they tried.

"I'm not surprised about Junis being good," Beetee murmurs as the servers clear the empty dessert plates.

"Did Seeder train her?" I ask, ignoring the looks of surprise. "I mean they are related right?"

Beetee stares at me for a few seconds then laughs. "How….never mind. Yes, Junis is Seeder's niece. I don't think she would have trained her specifically for the Games, but I wouldn't be surprised if she gave her some…ah….preparation. In case she was ever picked. It seems that the relatives of former victors have worse odds than most."

He says it in a neutral tone, though it is a statistically observed fact that almost every victor with a relative in the right age range ends up mentoring that family member. The Capitol audience loves it, though almost none of them win.

"The boy is dangerous too. Sparrow," I add.

"Yeah I saw him at the archery with you. He was a fair shot with the bow. He was good at the spear throwing and sling too."

That's useful to know. After all, a small kid like that might not risk the bloodbath if he can fashion himself a sling or javelin from materials in the arena. Coming from district Eleven he probably has a fair idea of edible plants too.

"Well I'm ready for bed," Stuvek says as we rise from the table, looking exhausted from the day's efforts. Despite the early hour I am inclined to agree with him. In theory we are supposed to have an hour of gym class every day at school, but our district doesn't lend itself to active pursuits so the teachers dropped it long before I was born. Instead we spend the time sorting scrapped electronics, pulling old models apart to retrieve any useful components or wiring. It's a job that requires the small nimble hands of a child to do well, though it means our district again misses out on any sort of physical training prior to the Games. Today has probably been the most physically active day of his life.

As I spent little time actually doing anything physically exerting, there is no reason I should feel so tired. I guess it's just the situation getting to me. Regardless I don't feel like keeping Cupros company and Beetee is already on his way out to fix something else for Heavensbee so I head for my bedroom too. As soon as I shut the door I feel better; despite my wave of loneliness earlier it is nice to be away from the constant observation of others.

I lie back on the soft mattress, larger than the entire room Pella and I share back home and close my eyes for just a moment. When I wake I curse at myself, for it is past midnight and I will now struggle to sleep the rest of the night out. The last thing I need is to spend tomorrow's training in a sleep-deprived haze.

I toss and turn for a while, the seemingly luxurious mattress suddenly lumpy and uncomfortable. Through the closed window I can hear the muffled sound of music echoing through the streets from the never-ceasing Capitol parties. I try to imagine what it must be like growing up in the Capitol, living from one exciting event to the next, worrying only about the latest fashion trends and whose parties you are invited to. Never having to miss a meal because the cupboard is empty until payday. Never suffering through hours of back- and neck-aching work at a bench assembling tiny components.

As a school-age person I only ever worked three hour factory shifts a few days a week and it was terrible. It had been enough to make me pursue a career in the elite design and technology area, and I would have spent the rest of my life in cramped offices poring over diagrams and models. Which sounds quite enticing now that the rest of my life might be four more days.

My usual remedy to sleeplessness is unavailable to me, though I remind myself to ask Beetee for the loan of a screwdriver and some pliers tomorrow morning. Plan B was always listening to Balia's singing, also not an option in this case. I try humming a few lines, straining my brain to remember the words of Grandma's favourite songs. She taught Balia and I when we were younger, though I was never much good. Balia has the voice of an angel though, or that's what Grandma always told her as she slipped us sweets. I never knew where she got them from but she always had a jar stashed away in the drawer for when we visited her apartment, two blocks from our own.

The third line of the second verse eludes even my prodigious memory, and I switch to another song only to find I can't even remember the first line. The only lyrics that spring to mind are from the nursery rhymes that seem too childish and innocent for the situation, so I give up and turn on the television in desperation. Of course it is to do with the Games, and I recognise Caesar Flickerman, who hosts all the major interviews addressing a panel of others. The woman on the end looks familiar, and when they cut to her speaking, her name pops up underneath identifying her as Janine Escarot, the stylist for District Ten. The other guests seem to be former stylists for various districts, and the topic is the provocative outfit worn by Starria Race, who must be the pretty girl from Ten.

Just what I needed, another name of one of my fellow tributes to make them become real people in my mind. The program seems to be winding down though so I decide to wait for whatever shows next in the hopes that it will be more distracting. Or so mind-numbingly boring that it will put me right back to sleep. That is probably too much to hope for though, as I rarely fall asleep when watching television or reading books. My mind gets too caught up and keeps me awake and pondering whatever is being discussed, unlike Pella who manages to nod off at any given chance.

Absently I reach for the ring around my neck and jerk in surprise when it isn't there. But of course it is still missing, since Dido took it to be checked by the Gamemakers. I hope that they don't realise the wires are copper and refuse it on the grounds I could use them for some sort of electrical trap. I've seen other tributes with similar things in years gone by so it should be ok, though the silk string might be a problem.

It does remind me of something else I can pass the time with though, and I dig around in the cupboard until I find a skirt made from a series of dangling strings. With only a slight pang of guilt I use the sharp edge of the counter to sever several strands, toss the skirt back into the wardrobe and return to the bed. Practicing the knots I learned while listening to the lilting voices from the television is almost as soothing as taking apart electronics and I don't notice when the interview program ends and the channel switches over to show a replay of the reaping ceremony until I recognise pretty boy from One walking to the stage.

I am tempted to switch it off, preserving what little hope I have of not learning any more names, as well as not having to see that haunted look in my sister's eyes as I stand on the stage. But as they announce Daniellis Preston as the volunteer replacement it strikes me that I might owe it to the others to know their names. Certainly I already know enough of the likeable or vulnerable ones that it won't make a difference, and if I can't bring myself to at least know their names before they die then maybe I don't have the right to take their lives to preserve my own. Though I doubt I will take many if any at all. It all depends on making a good escape at the start, and some tremendous luck as well as a good arena for my talents.

I surely won't bring down Lucinda Dane or the enormous Halifax Mano from Two as I watch them take the stage in menacing silence. I see again my sister's tear stained face as I mount the grey steps in our district. Four seems to have more of a cheerful atmosphere than the other districts, probably still revelling in the glory of last year's victory. Now that I am paying attention I recognise Denissa standing beside Mags and the other mentor for this year, Morston Wake as well as another middle-aged woman. The reigning victor looks physically and mentally fine and I wonder again why she isn't mentoring this year's tributes. The tributes, tall tanned Damian Skate and wiry, graceful Francis Waverley show the same carefree confidence that I noticed before. She in particular scares me because she seems smart as well as strong and deadly.

The pair from Five are as pitiful as I remember, the girl Berilly so pale that she practically glows white, with huge pale eyes. The boy Dalton, weedy and slight, though darker skinned than the typical Three resident I compared him to before. Wenda Caster, the starveling girl who I was standing beside this morning, her eyes already darting furtively about as she is marched to the stage. Strong Aleksander Yancy who nods to a younger version of himself in the crowd. Tiny Emilia Wallace, brawny Shovan Birch. The names and faces all begin to blur together and suddenly there is morning sunlight streaming through the gap in the curtains.


	9. Chapter 9

It appears I slept after all though the dry taste in my mouth and the sharp pains as I raise my head from my arm make me wonder if it was worth it. The day continues in a similar manner, my head hazy from the interrupted sleep and I am ashamed to have to ask several of the trainers to repeat things when I find myself zoning out during their initial explanations.

The practice I did with the skirt cords last night shows when I return to the ropes station and successfully repeat all six knots, though the snare rig takes a few tries. The delighted trainer advises me as I construct a series of ropes that will catch and immobilize a person who triggers it, not only by the foot but also around the middle, potentially pinning their arms too. As I prepare to test it with a dummy I notice several people glancing my way and quickly unloop a critical knot before moving the dummy forwards. The foot loop catches and the dummy flies up in the air for a second before the whole contraption crashes apart. From the corner of my eye I see Stuvek looking confused while his little friends laugh. On the other side the three Career girls are also laughing, though Francis from Four looks suspicious. Beyond her Junis is also watching with a slight smile, and I guess my performance didn't fool her for a second.

I give the trainer a wry shrug and grimace and he winks as he starts pulling apart the mess, waving me off to another station in feigned disgust. Hopefully he will inform the watching Gamemakers that I deliberately fouled the trap in order to appear unskilled, which should actually gain me extra points for cunning.

Lunch is called before I decide where to go next and I eat alone again, letting my mind drift aimlessly to more advanced rope and pulley systems along the same principle as my earlier effort. I must actually doze off momentarily because Stuvek is suddenly sitting beside me, polishing off an apple.

"Oh, you're awake again," he says through a mouthful. "Don't worry, I don't think anyone else noticed."

I relax slightly when I see no-one is looking our way and that there are still tributes eating.

"So what happened before? With the ropes?" he clarifies when I stare at him.

"Oh," I reply, "I guess I got my knots mixed up. Didn't secure the longer loop properly."

"Right," he says with a brief smile. "Figures. Felton and Morris think you're hopeless now."

"Good," I tell him and he blinks then laughs.

"Of course. That makes sense. Well if you run out of ideas, you could always try the climbing wall. The mats are really soft so you won't hurt yourself when you fall."

"I'll keep that in mind," I tell him, and he gets the hint and rises from the seat.

"Stuvek," I call as he starts to leave.

"Yeah?"

"You should try the ropes trainer. He's pretty smart, for all that he couldn't teach me a simple snare trap."

He laughs and waves acknowledgement as he returns to the other boys, and I feel another pang of guilt as I watch them talking. Three young lives which will soon be over, possibly at my hands if I am to survive. But I can't afford to break down here where everyone will see so I bite my lip and clench my fists under the table, forcing my brain through complex algebraic formulae until Micah sends us back out to the gym.

-xXx-

By the end of the day I am completely exhausted, forcing down every bite of dinner in silence. Dido and Lucia have both joined us tonight and seem to be quite capable of holding the conversation up, with occasional interventions from Beetee. Lucia seems to be raving about the new ironing rod and how much time it saves designers when preparing outfits. Both she and Dido start suggesting modifications or other gadgets that would make their unbearably difficult lives easier and I see Stuvek rolling his eyes at the grandiose pronouncements of suffering and stifle a laugh.

Which only serves to remind me that this little kid who acts a bit like my brother Ezra will soon be dead for the entertainment of these 'terribly suffering' people and I feel a wave of anger swamp me. It is such an unusual emotion for me that I'm not sure how to deal with it, though luckily we reach the end of the meal before I say anything potentially insulting.

This time I remember to ask Beetee for a loan of his toolkit, and he doesn't even blink when I disappear into my room with it. After two lamps, the drinks machine and the electronic alarm clock have been separated out into their component pieces and reassembled I feel slightly better and decide to call it a night.

I sleep peacefully and thoroughly for the first time since stepping on the train, and rise early for the final day of training. To my delight, breakfast is already waiting and Beetee is alone at the table, sipping from a large mug of coffee.

"Ah, Wiress. Feeling better?" he asks as I join him, waving away the hovering Avox and serving myself a bowl of fruit and cream.

"Much," I reply, sliding the toolkit across the tablecloth. "Thanks for the loan. I needed that."

"No trouble," he says with a brief smile. "And I take it no Capitol technology was harmed in the process?"

"If only," I mutter into my juice, which earns me a genuine laugh.

"My brother was the same, always taking things apart when he was bored or frustrated," he says thoughtfully and a shadowed expression crosses his face for half a second. It's the first I've heard of him having a brother, and I open my mouth to ask about him when he cuts me off.

"So, last day of training. Have you decided what you will show the Gamemakers?"

"Probably a few variations on my rope trap from yesterday," I say and he chuckles again.

"Yes, Stuvek mentioned that after you left. A catastrophic failure apparently."

"It seems I accidentally undid a crucial knot. The boys from Eight and Nine think I'm hopeless."

"Terrible. Though I suppose the trainer knew what the problem was?"

"I believe so," I reply and he nods approvingly.

It's nice having someone who speaks my language and understands the meaning of my unspoken words. It's like this at home talking to Ezra and Balia. Especially my sister, who seems to intrinsically understand everyone regardless of how incoherent or confused they are.

We sit in silence for a while before he says, "You should probably use at least one weapon. In front of the Gamemakers. You don't have to do it well," he adds when I prepare to argue.

"It shows that you have the commitment to win, and since you want a middle-range score you will need to show them something."

I don't want to, but I know he is right. Maybe I can shoot a few arrows, or at worst try and stab one of the dummies with a spear. I decide to let it be as a tousle-haired Stuvek joins us at the table.

Carmenius appears as we are about to leave, and makes us wait for him to inhale his coffee before we head down in the lifts. As a result we are the last ones there and receive the icy looks of the Careers before breaking apart to the various stations.

I spend the morning double-checking every bit of knowledge on plants and insects, both edible and deadly, and am pleased to find I get nothing wrong. Before I know it lunch is called and the tributes from the early districts start preparing for their private sessions. I will be the sixth one called, following on from Stuvek. This will probably work to my advantage as he will serve as a buffer between me and the undoubtedly impressive Careers before us.

One by one the names are called, and the room quickly becomes less rowdy following the departure of One and Two. Stuvek looks shaky as he leaves and I suddenly am conscious of how little nerves are affecting me. I have a plan; I know exactly what I am going to do and how to do it. And it should be enough to see me well placed in the middle ranks.

When my name is called I rise without fear and ignore the snigger from Stuvek's friends as I re-enter the gymnasium. The Gamemakers are perched on their balcony, half watching me, half-watching the white-clad servers who seem to be passing out plates laden with steaming fish and vegetables.

"Ah, Miss Ling. You may begin." The man at the front eventually notices me and waves me forward. I force a smile before heading straight to the ropes station.

I had most of the morning to plot this out while sorting plants and insects, and quickly grab the necessary ropes, nets and a chair. The chin-up and climbing bars next to the wall-net provide the structure I need, and it takes me a little over ten minutes to loop together the series of ropes. Hurrying now, I grab several knives and lash them to a pair of spear shafts, which slide into their pre-made loops. Finally I am ready, and make a grand show of dragging over a pair of dummies so that every eye is focused on me by the time I am ready.

The first figure I shove forward across the trip-line is covered with a dropped net and met head-on by the swinging knife-lashed spear. It crumples to the floor and I drag it clear to the centre before removing the netting. Two of the knives are embedded in the rubbery shoulders while the third is buried in the throat.

Pushing it and my revulsion aside I line up the second dummy and place the rubber foot into the snare loop, mimicking a person walking. I jump clear as the rubber figure is flipped upside-down and the second loop drops to pinion the arms. Exactly as planned. Finally the second knife-studded shaft swings out to meet it, but the dangling figure rotates slightly and only one knife hits into the side of the shoulder muscle.

If this were a real person in the arena then they would be struggling and yelling by now. If it were one of the Careers they might even break free on their own if their allies didn't come to their aid. I can hear two of the Gamemakers murmuring as I stand there and I realise they are waiting for me to finish the job. Quickly I wrench one of the knives free from the ties to the used spear shaft and run back to the dangling figure, lining up a strike to its neck as it twists around to face me. And then I look into that generic rubber face only it's no longer androgynous plastic, but Stuvek, eyes wide in pain. The girl from Twelve, pleading and begging. Sparrow, Junis, Balia. I shake my head to get rid of the images, reminding myself that it is just plastic. Just a dummy. Not real.

Taking a deep breath I brace myself and draw back my arm, closing my eyes as I plunge the knife forward. I feel it skitter across the rubber surface and hear the clatter as it strikes the ground. When I open my eyes, the Gamemakers are still watching, though some are whispering to one another. I stare pleadingly at the purple-robed figure at the railing, knowing that I can't bring myself to pick up the knife and try again. Finally he sighs and flicks his fat fingers towards the door.

"Thank you Miss Ling. You may go."

I breathe a heavy sigh and make my escape through the far door, trying to control the shaking of my knees as I make the short walk to the elevator.

-xXx-

Carmenius pounces on me as soon as I exit the elevator.

"Where have you been? I suppose it doesn't matter if you did as badly as him."

"I-"

"Well?"

"Let her be Carmenius. Wiress, come, sit girl."

Dido is the last person I expect to come to my rescue, but she is definitely better company than our shallow, self-obsessed escort so I join her on the couch.

"Where is Stuvek?" I ask as I sit. I had sort of expected him to be here as he only finished a quarter of an hour before me.

Dido raises her pencilled eyebrows at the question and Carmenius gives a snort of disgust before answering.

"Out on the balcony with Beetee sobbing his pathetic head off."

The disdain in his voice as he speaks of my district partner who will almost certainly be dead in a matter of days makes me both sick and angry. I open my mouth to give him a piece of the thoughts that I have kept bundled up over the last few days, but Dido beats me to it.

"For pity's sake Carmenius, show some respect. The boy knows he will die and still has the courage to try. It is not his fault that he is poorly suited to the contest and he is but fourteen years old. When you were his age you cried about a lot less than your imminent death I expect. Be thankful you are a child of the Capitol and not of the Districts, and keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak in front of the tributes or I will see you permanently assigned to District Twelve."

I watch in amazement as the pompous Capitolian visibly deflates at every word. The threat of being demoted to a District where the children are actually starving and are even less prepared to fight for their lives alone seems to be enough to silence any retort.

"I…but…fine." He grits his teeth and forces the sneer away, speaking in a pleasant but false tone.

"How did your private session go Wiress?"

I'm tempted not to answer his insincere enquiry but Dido looks at me too, so I shrug and say, "Alright I guess."

"Do you think you managed higher than a four?"

The condescending note has returned already, though I guess that is hardly surprising.

"I hope so," I tell him, though to be honest my weakness at the end could have cost me badly. Still my display of snare traps should have been enough to get a decent score.

A soft clatter from the far wall marks Beetee's return from the balcony, and I can see Stuvek's tousled head staring out over the city.

"Wiress, you're back …oh. Is it two-thirty already?"

He glances at his watch in surprise, then seems to remember the rest of us.

"Oh, sorry. How did you go?"

"Alright I think," I repeat for his benefit.

"So everything went to plan?"

"Mostly," I tell him. "I mean the traps worked as planned. It was just-"

He nods his understanding and says, "Well you did your best. And I expect they were suitably impressed with your ingenuity to achieve the score you were aiming for."

"I guess we will see tonight," Dido says.

"Well, if you manage at least a six I might have an interested sponsor," Carmenius add smugly.

"Really?" I'm surprised, not only that someone is interested but that Carmenius actually bothered to do his job after all the commentary about how useless we were.

"Well they're not interested in the boy, but after watching her interview they thought you might be a good underdog to back." He gestures to Dido, who gives her usual bland shrug.

"I merely told Flickerman that you seemed intelligent and self-possessed. A good critical thinker under pressure. Some people are willing to back brains over brawn."

I'm touched that my seemingly uncaring stylist was willing to speak so publicly in my support.

"Dido, thanks. I-"

"I said nothing untrue. You, amongst all I have worked on have the greatest potential to succeed. I will provide what support I can in order to increase your chances."

Beetee nods graciously in her direction. "Sometimes all it takes is one person showing support to encourage others to do the same. So who is this potential sponsor you have found?"

"Yellan Garfunkel," Carmenius announces proudly.

Beetee frowns but Dido nods her recognition.

"The musician, yes. He would be a valuable contributor."

"Do you know him?" I ask, and receive another shrug.

"Know of him. He is an eccentric even by our standards. Fantastic composer, though not as popular with the younger crowd."

"He's not interested unless she shows above average potential. He said a score of six or more and he would be in touch."

"Well there's not much we can do until this evening then," says Beetee. "You have the afternoon to relax. My toolkit is on the counter if you wish to borrow it again."

It's a tempting offer, but as I look out the glass door I see the outlined figure on the balcony. I can't afford to worry about anyone but me if I am to survive these Games, but it just doesn't seem right to leave him on his own.


	10. Chapter 10

"It's beautiful isn't it?"

Stuvek jumps as I join him by the railing, then smiles sheepishly as he returns his gaze to the sprawling Capitol. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is more ashen than before.

"Yeah, I guess. I'm not as keen on architecture as you are. And I can't really see the beauty in a city full of people who would celebrate while we fight to the death."

"Beautiful city, not so beautiful people," I suggest.

"Something like that. Dido seems alright though. You're lucky you got her and not Lucia."

Very lucky from what I have seen.

"Yeah, she seems a bit…"

"Horrible? Though I guess it's better that you get the good stylist since you might have a chance."

I can't think of anything to say to this. Some people would disagree, but we're both smart enough to know it's the truth.

"So how did you go?" he asks after a minute of silence.

"Not as good as I hoped. But hopefully good enough."

He laughs at this and says, "I'm guessing your show involved a significantly improved rope trap to the other day?"

"Possibly," I reply. As much as he seems a good kid, I can't afford to say too much. After all if I could hear Francis and her mentor talking before, then others might be listening to us now. And we are situated between two Career groups, who I definitely don't want knowing about my plans.

"How about you?" I ask, and immediately regret it. If he was out here crying immediately following his session then it probably didn't go too well.

"Oh…you know. I mean I don't really have any special skills to show. I climbed a bit and tried some sword moves. I don't think it will really matter."

It probably won't, but I don't say so. He has it bad enough from his stylist, mentor and Carmenius without me reminding him of his imminent death.

We just stay there in silence, enjoying the view of the sprawling city beyond the Training Centre. Despite Stuvek's words, I can't help but see the beauty of the Capitol. Every curve and arch, every mosaic stone pattern laid into the sidewalks. The great carved fountain down the path to the left, the abstract glass sculptures on the corner on the right. The afternoon sun glinting off this window and that gold panelling, through the prismatic glass to produce a rainbow of colours that children are dancing in on the path.

"Wiress. Wiress!"

"Huh?"

"Come on, dinner." Stuvek is peering around the glass door, waving me inside. When I look back at the city I realise the light has changed to the weak orange of sunset.

"Oh, I guess I lost track of time," I say as I follow him in.

"Yeah, you were staring out there for hours."

Well, it's not the first time I've been distracted by something and lost track of the minutes passing.

Our stylists have again joined us for dinner, as well as Carmenius and Cupros. A full house for once, in preparation for our training scores. Carmenius seems to be keeping his promise to Dido, not once criticising either of us beyond a single comment to Lucia about a lack of sponsorship support for one of his charges. Even Cupros is fairly cheerful by his standards, telling the story of a Capitol banquet that turned into a food-fight when pressed by Lucia, who was also present.

It's not long before the dessert is being cleared and we are ushered into the lounge to watch the training scores. The show starts with Caesar Flickerman giving us a reminder of how the scores work before launching straight into District One.

Pretty-boy is first, his arrogant smirk justified when the 10 flashes up underneath the name, Jasper Noble. His curvy district partner Daniellis is next with a score of 8. On the lower end for a Career tribute. Two is next, the brutish Halifax and the sour Lucinda with scores of 9 and 8 respectively. The Careers really aren't doing as well as expected, which gives me a slight flicker of hope.

We're next, and Stuvek tries not to look too disappointed when the number 4 flashes under his picture.

"Better than last year's boy," Cupros grunts and Stuvek gives him a weak smile. I've seen people win with scores as low as four before, though it was because they were hiding some secret skill or got incredibly lucky.

My picture replaces his and I realise I am actually trembling. I was fairly confident that I would manage a decent score before I went in, but who knows how much my failure with the knife cost me. The number 6 flashes up and we all breathe a sigh of relief.

"Excellent," Carmenius says in that falsely cheerful tone. "We should be hearing from Mister Garfunkel shortly."

I'll believe it when I see it. For now I refocus on the screen to see what my competition is like. Damian from Four pulls another surprisingly low 8, while Francis scores an equal-high 10. I figured her for the most dangerous of the group, but she must have shown something more than the sparring she openly displayed during the training sessions.

Five scores expectedly low 3s, as does starveling Wenda from Six. Her counterpart Aleksander equals my score of 6, which suddenly doesn't look so bad, only two points off half the Career pack. Shovan Birch from Seven manages a score of 8, though the thirteen-year-old Emilia and Stuvek's friend Felton from Eight only match Stuvek's 4.

The girl that Stuvek informed us was a crybaby makes us all look good with the appallingly low score of 2. I wonder if she actually did anything at all during her session.

Stuvek's other ally Morris Tarly surprises us all with a score of 7, his natural sword-fighting ability apparently counting for more than my traps. Then again he might have been hiding something special too. His female counterpart Tarragon scores a lowly 3 for all she looks competent, as does Anton Wincaster from Ten.

Pretty Starria Race manages a 5, though her looks will still gain her some sponsors regardless of training score, and I sit forward expectantly as the tributes from district Eleven are shown. Junis looks stubbornly tough even in her photo, and manages a respectable score of 7. One higher than me, though I didn't really see her practicing any fighting techniques during the two and a half days in the gymnasium. Which means none of us have any idea of her preferred weapon, a very clever play on her part. Sparrow Harper also pulls a 7, though at least I know about his skills with ranged weapons. He must be very good indeed for them to rate him so highly despite his diminutive size.

Finally the pair from Twelve, the boy scoring a respectable 5, the girl the expectedly low 3. That leaves me less highly rated than ten of the twenty-four tributes, and on par with one. Right in the middle of the pack, much better than I had dared to hope for. I wonder what my family thought when they saw this back home. No doubt they will have guessed the sort of things I would have done, and I just hope I'm not giving them false hope about seeing me survive.

"Great work, both of you," says Beetee firmly, daring any of the others to contradict him. "Why don't you head for bed. Get a good night's sleep before tomorrow. We'll be preparing you for the interviews and we all need some time to talk with the stylists about your presentation."

"Don't we get a say?" asks Stuvek, and I find myself agreeing with him. After all, it's us that will be on stage presenting whatever persona will work best.

"I think we're pretty clear about what angle we are going for with both of you," grunts Cupros.

Beetee nods and adds, "Besides, if you really don't like something we can work through it tomorrow. Right now we just all need to get on the same line, and that will be easier with less people adding in their opinions. What time do you want to start tomorrow?"

The last is directed at Carmenius, who shrugs and says, "As early as possible if I am to successfully teach them how to present themselves properly to the audience. Ten? I'll start with Wiress first and we can swap after lunch."

Ten is hardly early by my standards, though I suppose if you stay out drinking until the morning hours it seems like a hard ask. I am willing to trust Beetee to aim Dido and Carmenius towards the intelligent persona I plan on presenting and swipe the toolkit from the sideboard on the way to my room.

-xXx-

"No, no, NO! Cross them at the ankles or don't cross them at all, but keep your knees together. How is that so hard to understand?"

I bite down on a retort and uncross my legs, arching my back to keep the upright posture Carmenius has insisted I maintain.

"Don't scowl," he snaps at my grimace as he slouches against the counter. Hypocrite.

"Now, we'll try a few simple questions and I want you to try answering them while smiling."

"But I thought-"

"Just do it."

Wishing for the hundredth time that Beetee wasn't busy entertaining a potential sponsor, I force a smile and say "Fine."

"No, it won't do. It needs to look real, like this."

I barely manage to not roll my eyes as he demonstrates his usual false manic grin. There is no way I am going to mangle my face like that on TV, and I suspect trying to appeal to the audience in this way will lose me sponsors.

"Didn't Beetee tell you we are aiming for quiet and intelligent?" I ask when he throws his arms up in disgust at my lack of cooperation.

"Well yes, but I know better what the audience wants to see and you can fix the specifics later."

"But there's no point making me look like….like…"

"Like a simpleton," Beetee finishes from the doorway and I heave a sigh of relief that he has finally made it.

"Good news," he says as he joins Carmenius by the counter. "Mr Garfunkel has confirmed his sponsorship. How are we going here?"

"We would be doing a whole lot better if she would do as she is told," Carmenius snaps and Beetee's eyebrows shoot up over his glasses frames in that now familiar expression of amused surprise.

"Oh? You are practicing the things we discussed last night, correct? Demure responses and collected poise?"

Despite the fact that Carmenius is some years older, he quails under the stern look.

"Well…I mean…look, just because you and Dido think it is the way we should do things doesn't mean that I…"

He tapers off into silence, shoulders hunched in defeat.

"Fine. We'll do it your way. Just don't blame me when the audience falls asleep from boredom."

"The audience doesn't want to see the same performance repeated year after year. And there is no point passing Wiress off as a sweet innocent girl overwhelmed by their generosity."

Beetee turns to me and nods encouragingly.

"I see you have covered the essential points of posture and, I assume, walking?"

My grimace at the half-hour I spent trying learning to balance in heels answers his question.

"Well, it's nearly lunchtime. Why don't we all take a break? And maybe this evening the three of us can go over the finished product."

The mention of food is enough to get our escort's agreement and I slump in the chair, finally able to relax my aching shoulders and back while two Avoxes start loading the table with another expansive spread.

Stuvek and Cupros join us shortly, neither looking particularly happy. I feel sorry for Stuvek, who will undoubtedly get the worst of Carmenius' temper this afternoon, especially on the tail of my session. Following lunch, Beetee and I remove ourselves to the living room to plan out how I will answer the questions Caesar will be posing me, now that I know how to sit properly.

"So, we're obviously going with intelligent," Beetee starts as we settle on the wide leather couches. "Dido and I agreed that quiet confidence is the better option. No need to paint a target on your back by acting superior."

"Definitely not," I agree. I can manage quiet, intelligent and demure, though confident might need some work.

"As you did with training, you will want to dance around the questions about your skills. Give some vague hints without saying anything specific. If Caesar gets too close to something you want to hide, or if you can't think of an answer just smile and shake your head. Let the audience draw their own conclusions."

"I think I can manage that," I say with as much confidence as I can muster. It almost sounds convincing even to me, and Beetee gives me a jerky nod of approval.

"Very well, let's try some practice questions. Imagine you are on stage answering."

"Does that mean I have to sit up straight?" I ask, half joking, and groan when Beetee says yes.

"Carmenius may be lacking in a lot of areas, but he is right about the basics of presentation. Now let's start with your plans for the arena."

The next hour is filled with various answers to the same few questions. How do I plan on surviving the initial fight? How do I rate my chances against the competition? What sort of skills did I show to impress the Gamemakers for my mid-range score? Do I plan to follow in my mentor's footsteps? What skills do I bring to the Games from my District?

I'm definitely repeating myself by the end, but since I'll probably get only one variation in the actual interview it helps to run through all the alternatives.

Next we cover questions about my family, which makes me tear up briefly. Beetee lets me get myself under control without saying a word, reminding me again how thankful I am to have him and not Cupros as mentor. Still it's better that I break down here where it doesn't matter than on stage in front of the entire nation.

Eventually I manage to give a moderately collected spiel about how much my family means to me and how I hope not to disappoint them. I doubt I'll manage to do as well tomorrow night, but at least I have some idea of the words to use when the question is posed.

"I think that's about all we need to cover with regards to the interview," Beetee tells me finally, and I take it as a sign to relax the constrained posture.

"We still have a little time before they finish up in there I expect. Shall we discuss your actual strategy in the arena while we have the chance?"

Since we've already been over the general plan, he must mean specifics that we haven't yet had a chance to talk about away from the others. I fill him in on what I have guessed about the arena based upon the plant and insect stations.

"Hmm. Don't be too fixed on the idea of a forest or a jungle," he says when I'm finished. "Oh, I agree it's the most likely arena based upon the evidence, which almost makes it less likely in this case. Remember what I said about Vellum's pledge to up the ante from last year."

"Well at least I know there will be trees of some sort, and creepers that will do for rope."

"Yes, and you can probably improvise all necessary components in that case. A rock will do well enough for sharpening branches. And of course you have some sponsorship, though I would advise not to rely on it too much."

"But you did say Mister Garfunkel had pledged…something."

"Yes. I did." Beetee takes off his glasses and polishes them nervously on his shirt, then takes a deep breath before continuing.

"The thing about sponsors is…well…a Victor is somewhat indebted to those who aided them. Major sponsors that is, the ones who contribute a significant sum to a particular object at a time of need. And it is not uncommon to have them call for the favour to be returned at a later date. Often with interest."

"What do you mean return the favour?" I ask cautiously, noticing the twitching of his mouth and the way he curled his fingers constantly about themselves.

"That depends on the nature of the sponsor…and of the Victor. I have heard…well…I doubt it will be an issue in this case."

He shakes his head sharply. "No. You may have noticed my…interactions with the Heavensbees?"

"You fixing things for them you mean?"

"Fixing, designing, reconfiguring. Yes. Whatever they need me to do, whenever they need me to do so."

I frown, thinking back to Beetee's Games, impressed that anyone would have backed the undersized thirteen-year-old, who found himself facing off single-handedly against the entire Career pack. I also don't remember him getting any gifts; surely if he had any sponsorship money Cupros would have used it to send him something he could have used as the lightning rod tip instead of his glasses.

"I don't remember-"

"Me getting anything? I didn't. No-one thought I had a chance until I caught….well."

He swallows and looks away. His eyes trace the lines of another sea-based painting for a few seconds, which seems to calm his fidgeting slightly.

"No, I received no gifts, but I have bartered for sponsorship since and those debts still stand regardless of the outcome of the tributes they went to. Nikarchus Heavensbee has always been most generous and a wise Victor always pays their debts."

"So you're saying if I get these gifts and go on to win then I will be expected to do a similar thing?"

I'm not sure I like the idea of having my brain on call indefinitely, but if it's what I need to do to survive I'll take it. At least I would potentially be involved in some interesting projects.

"I would expect so, yes." He smiles wryly and echoes my own thoughts. "There are worse fates."

Much worse. I could survive being the Heavensbees' engineer on call, but what will the musician expect from me in the future? What about other sponsors that may choose to back me if I survive the deadly initial phase of the Games? Beetee suggested other things that might be asked of an indebted Victor, and I'm not sure I want to survive only to spend my life doing only the bidding of others. Then again, is it worse than death?

"I will of course be carefully examining any other potential sponsors," Beetee adds softly.

"Reading my mind?"

He laughs and says, "Your body language speaks clearly, and I have sat where you are sitting. And before you ask, no I don't know whether Yellan Garfunkel foresees any particular form of…repayment for his support. He is somewhat….hmmm….unusual. He has requested that his donation remain anonymous for now, but who can know what the future holds. As for Clara Redfern…well…if we get desperate…"

"Clara Redfern?" I ask, then immediately realise the answer. "Oh, the girl from the platform?"

I pegged her age approximately the same as mine, but I guess with the miraculous surgery techniques available to the wealthy she could well be older and richer than I thought.

"Yes. Her mother is one of the President's most valued ministers and her father is a wealthy businessman. Clara is a very bright young lady and her parents spare nothing in her education. She has always expressed the opinion that intelligence deserves to win out and regularly supports our district over the others."

"Supports but doesn't sponsor?" I ask, confused, as she sounds like the ideal person to back any of our tributes.

"Oh yes, she willingly sponsors, or at least will convince her parents to do so. See, she's not quite sixteen yet so her parents still hold the majority of her money in trust. And unlike their daughter they see sponsorship very much as a give and take system, especially with her mother's position in the government. Let's just say I made that mistake once and I will not do so again, unless the price is worth it."

I'm not sure that I follow his entire argument as my brain is still trying to process the unexpected age difference between myself and the fiery-haired Clara.

"For what it's worth, I think you have a very good chance. To make it I mean. If you can make it clear of the Cornucopia you should be able to survive most common pitfalls of the Arena."

"Is it worth trying for something at the Cornucopia?"

He frowns and taps his fingers against the table. "I can't say no outright. If there is something you can see and think you can reach safely then I would suggest you go for it. If not, well, I can get you water. But why waste a gift if it is there for the taking. You will need to decide as soon as possible whether to go in or not. Even a few seconds of hesitation can be enough…"

Enough to mean the difference between life and death. Between escape with the items for my survival and struggling to make it on my own.

"Whatever happens Wiress, trust your intuition. From what I've seen it's good. Use it. It may just keep you alive."

I nod, and I settle back into the comfortable chair, watching the dripping clock as I think over my plans for survival. My intuitive guesses have helped me before whenever I was stuck on a project. Maybe they can help save my life now.


	11. Chapter 11

May have possibly gone on a mad writing tear the last two days, and knocked out nearly 30K words. As such updates will be more frequent. Reviews always appreciated.

* * *

The clock is creeping towards dinner time when the dining room door bounces open and Carmenius stalks out, already drinking from the neck of a wine bottle. Stuvek barrels past him, head bowed and disappears into his room. It seems that the fear he was able to put aside during training with his new friends has returned with the poignant reminder of his imminent death. We all agree to let him be when he doesn't answer the door for dinner, and the meal is oddly silent with just the three of us there.

I can't help but be glad for the reprieve of the planned evening session with Carmenius, who has apparently given up on us in disgust yet again in favour for a bar somewhere. I spend some time practicing my knots with the skirt cords until I let my mind wander and find my fingers now following the familiar patterns without needing to concentrate. Throwing them aside I wander aimlessly around my room for a bit before a thought strikes me and I summon one of the mute servers, who takes little time to supply me with a pen and some paper.

Wondering why I didn't think of this before I sit in my usual planning position, cross legged on the bed and start drawing whatever comes to mind. Arrays of ropes and shafts that form far more complex snares than the ones I showed the Gamemakers. Various simple projectile weapons like the one Cupros built, that might be possible from natural materials. The circuitry design for an SSI assignment, due in the week after the Games finish. Maybe Beetee can take it back to Miss Tafter for me if I don't make it.

I even try drawing my family, though I've never been much good at capturing living things on paper. Balia's eyes are too far apart and her nose just doesn't look right in this picture here. I can't quite capture the oddly absent look in Malcy's eyes as he stares at me from the page. Ezra's head is too squashed and the stubble he regularly forgets to shave is nearly impossible to capture with a pen. My parents, not quite right either of them, though I can't put my finger on what. Maybe Dad's glasses, which are too large. Mother's curls start too high on her forehead. Grandma Tolsey is entirely at the wrong angle, though her chair looks right.

I don't realise I am humming until I toss the pen aside in frustration and notice the room seems suddenly too quiet. Grandma's songs again, though I still can't remember the words. The haunting melody seems appropriate for the situation, so I lie back, humming it over and over until the echoes from the metal walls lull me to sleep.

-xXx-

I had wondered earlier why it would take most of the day for our stylist and prep team to prepare us for the interviews, given that we had been plucked and scrubbed only a few days prior. After two hours of intensive bathing, alternating between soaking baths and hard spraying jets Juliette informs me that I am almost presentably clean, though she had hoped to get the absolute last of the grey tinge from my skin. I can't really tell what she's looking for; to me my limbs are an unnatural shade of pale gold and my black hair shines under the down lights.

Marius seems to be in charge of my makeup, coating me in a spray that enhances the golden tinge to a nearly healthy glow. He follows this up by coating my face in a thin layer of primer, over which the actual make-up will go on closer to the time.

The other man, Lorcan does my nails with a dark green-grey polish then surprises me when they dry by handing me a bit of paper.

"Dido said to get you to draw some actual circuitry designs, and I'll paint them on in silver and gold. I can get pretty fine with the pens so don't worry about how fiddly they are."

Touched again by my stylist's care I sketch out some of the interesting sections from my assignment last night, hoping that someone at home will recognise it if the cameras zoom in at any point. Lorcan carefully copies the patterns over with a fine airbrush pen that I really want to try out while Juliette makes a start on my hair. It seems my soft curls are nearly perfect as is, though she winds them through with a few copper strands, studded with the occasional pinhead diamond. These should glitter subtly under the stage-lights, drawing attention from my face to my hair, which really is my only attractive feature.

Finally Dido arrives with my outfit, a loose silvery dress criss-crossed with fine copper spirals. The collar is pale gold and folds down to form a pair of lightning bolts resting over my collarbones and doesn't ride too low for immodesty. The skirt swirls a little as I walk, the spiralling patterns taking on a hypnotic effect as I toy with the material. Even better, the shoes have almost no heel at all, making balancing a lot easier than yesterday.

The final touches are added in the jewellery, a pair of copper bracelets that spiral up my arms from wrist to elbow and a matching hairpiece that loops a portion of the copper-accented black waves higher on my head so that they tumble over one shoulder.

When I am finally permitted to look in the mirror, the figure I see appears to be some metallic creature, shining with every step like brand new electronics, straight from the box. The swirling patterns are mesmerising and mysterious and the conservative length hints at intellectual refinement. Perfect.

"Yes, this will do nicely," Dido says, echoing my unspoken thoughts. She takes over the pencils and powders from Marius, adding a dash of colour here and there, gesturing abruptly for me to turn my head at this angle or that under the lights until she is content.

"Oh you're just going to look marvellous out there," Juliette trills as she claps her hands together with excitement.

I smile at her in the mirror, trying not to let the slight wishy-washy feeling in my stomach come to the fore. Judging by the fading light through the window it is getting close to the time. Possibly my last sunset if things go badly. _No_, I tell myself firmly, looking away from the orange glow, _I can't think like that if I want to survive_. And I do want to survive, as long as the person at the other end is still mostly me. Perhaps this is what I fear as much as death; that I will become one of those heartless monsters. That my family and friends will watch me become that cold, emotionless killer, or worse the crazy savage who laughs hysterically over my fallen foes.

I try to rehearse some of the answers I practiced yesterday in my head while my prep team pack up, but my mind keeps jumping to images of my family. They will all be watching, of course; the interviews are mandatory viewing, so even Pella will be looking on during my three minutes in the spotlight. Will they see through the cool persona I present to cover the scared girl beneath? As long as the audience doesn't it shouldn't really matter.

Now is when I want my longer, sharper fingernails back so that I can dig them into the soft flesh of my wrist and keep my mind alert. I almost wish they had been less efficient in getting me ready, because we have to wait the time until the show starts in a nervous silence, broken only by the occasional swish of clothing and clatter of heels as the prep team move about.

Finally the call comes to start assembling downstairs, and we are the first to arrive behind the stage outside the Training Centre. I hope Stuvek gets here before the Careers do, so I have someone non-menacing to talk to, but I am out of luck it seems when the very next tributes to arrive are the pair from Two, who glare at me as their stylists continue to fuss over their outfits. The boy, Halifax is dressed in a dark grey suit that matches his eyes, though there are brass pins in the shape of a sword in his sleeve and collar button-holes. Lucinda is swathed in silvery-grey cloth edged with blood-red silk tassels. From a distance she will look like she is literally dripping blood, though I guess the effect is supposed to be her as a blood-coated blade.

I keep my eyes lowered, pretending they aren't there until the other tributes start to arrive, including my district partner who visibly quails under Twos' hungry gaze. Lucia seems to have switched things down a notch from the opening ceremony disaster and Stuvek looks relieved to be dressed in a fairly plain striped grey suit with gear-wheel buttons.

A determined band of organisers start arranging us in an orderly line as the last of the tributes appear, and I realise my knees are shaking beneath the swirling skirt. I've never really had a problem with talking in front of a small crowd, though usually I am presenting my work to a like-minded group of students and teachers not myself to an enormous audience who will soon be cheering for my death. Finally we make the march onto the stage, to the wide arc of seats, and I remember to sweep out the skirt of my dress before sitting, legs crossed at the ankles, knees together.

I stare out into the crowd, momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer number of people I watching until Caesar Flickerman bounds onto the centre of the stage, the lights turning his pale yellow-green hair luminescent against his midnight blue suit.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Capitol, of the Districts, of Panem. It's that time again, the chance for you to meet our courageous tributes for the Forty-eighth Annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd roars its reply, responding eagerly to Flickerman's words, howling and chanting the names of their favourites already. They can't wait to see us suffering, bleeding, dying. When I look again out to the sea of faces and colours and swirling, flashing lights I see instead the dogs that guard the warehouses, snarling and slathering. Great fanged beasts like the ones that devoured three tributes in the forests a few years back. Animals, muttations, out for blood, ready to feed off our delectable agony.

The only thing that stops me heaving is the fine dress I am wearing, and the thought of what Dido might do to me if I ruin it on stage. I am so very glad that we are seated, because my legs would not support me right now, and I have exactly twelve minutes to get myself under control. I find a point far above the heads of the audience, a flashing light on a high-up building in the distance and stare at it, one breath after another until the sound of applause shakes me from my stupor. And I've gone and done it again; completely zoned out my mind so that I've missed my last opportunity to study the curvy beauty from One.

Better her than him, though, I decide as Jasper Noble struts to the front of the stage, clasping hands briefly with Caesar before turning to the crowd to flex the muscles visible from his rolled-up sleeve. Several middle aged ladies in ghastly low-cut outfits near the front swoon and he blows them a kiss before taking his seat. The conversation that follows provides little I didn't already know. He claims he is the son of a wealthy family, and that his parents were proud of him for essentially volunteering. I, like most of the audience had forgotten that he was actually reaped, but he assures the watchers that he would have been sitting here regardless, ready to reclaim glory for his district following last year's close defeat.

It makes me wonder what sort of lives they must lead in the Career districts for parents to willingly send their children to their deaths for that small chance of glory or honour. And surely even someone trained from a young age to fight and kill would find themselves a changed person once they actually had blood on their hands. Maybe this arrogant boy, who seems so at home with making others suffer won't be tormented by the deaths of the children he kills.

The pair from Two are both quietly menacing, though Lucinda isn't really that convincing at it. Halifax, who is the largest tribute by an inch over the boy from Seven carries the persona well, making Caesar flinch as they shake hands and staring intently around the circle of tributes with a small smile before answering the question about his readiness to kill.

Suddenly it is my turn and I take one last deep breath before rising to my feet. Thankfully my legs hold and I almost manage the confident gliding walk that I practiced before to the centre of the stage. Caesar takes my hand gently to help me sit and I again remember to sweep out the hypnotically patterned skirt, tilting my head so that the light will catch the miniature diamonds in my hair.

A soft sigh comes from the crowd, not from the front where the middle-aged women and eager young men are seated, but from a little further back where the older wealthy residents are seated.

"So Miss Ling, you seemed a little distracted before. Were you planning out your strategy?"

How did he see my reaction to the audience when he was facing them and egging them on? Of course. The giant screens showing the stage. They must have cut around our faces at some point. _Deep breath, then answer_, I tell myself.

"Oh I was just admiring the fantastic architecture. It really is spectacular, especially at night with the artistic lighting. In fact your entire city is spectacular."

I gesture out above the heads of the audience, and from the corner of my eye I spot Beetee sitting with the other mentors nodding with approval. Step one: compliment the Capitol. Check.

"Well, we have heard some interesting things about you Wiress, from your stylist and of course your mentor Beetee."

He pauses and looks at me expectantly, though he hasn't really asked anything. Maybe he's giving me a chance to take the initiative, though if I hesitate too long, he will undoubtedly try a different angle.

"Oh yes, well it has been wonderful to work with such brilliant people. Dido's designs are so…refined. And Beetee and I seem to be completely on the same wavelength."

I can see the camera do a quick cut-around to my stylist seated in one of the tiers, who nods graciously, and then to Beetee before centring back on me in time for Caesar's next question.

"So can we expect to see some of the same brilliance that Beetee used in his Games?"

"I certainly hope so," I reply cautiously, and Caesar takes this as an opportunity to ask about my strengths.

I try to avoid directly answering any of his queries about specific skills, and he eventually realises I am evading his questions and switches topic.

"So what about your family? I believe we saw your sister during the reaping? Do you have anything to say to them?"

I nod when he mentions Balia and force myself to clamp down on any emotional response. If this is my last chance to say anything to my family I want it to at least be coherent.

"I have no doubt my family will be watching on and cheering for me. My parents have always supported me, and my brothers and sister…s have faith in my returning home."

Pella will be watching and it seems petty to not include her in the statement now, so she will know if I die that I forgive anything she feels bad for saying over the years.

"I just hope that whatever happens they are… " What do I hope? That they are praying for the deaths of these other 23 children so that I come back to them? That they will be content in knowing I died relatively painlessly? I can't say anything that sounds weak, or like I am giving up hope.

"I hope that they are proud of me, whatever happens."

"I have no doubt they will be Wiress. Ladies and Gentlemen, Wiress Ling from District Three."

Just like that my time is up. I doubt I said anything that will keep me in the minds of the screaming mob, but I didn't collapse or break down sobbing so to me it is a success. And I got a chance to say goodbye to my family, sort of. If I can stay strong for them in the spotlight then maybe it will help them stay strong if I die.

Stuvek's interview is a little heartbreaking to watch. He tries at first to act like the nonchalant and cool killer we all know he is not, but is smart enough to realise no-one is buying it and switches back to the generally friendly boy that he seems to really be.

It does him no favours with the audience, but he was never going to make an impression, and at least now his family won't have to watch him spend his last time pretending to endorse the monstrosity he has been forced to fight in.

An enormous cheer greets the announcement of Francis Waverley, which shows no signs of dying down as Caesar tries to start up the conversation. She frowns when she realises she is losing valuable time, and eventually the noise dies down enough for them to be heard.

Caesar starts with the usual introductory questions, including the obligatory "How does it feel to be following in the footsteps of last year's Victor?" and she responds with typical grace, thanking her mentor Mags and stylist Antiquilla for their help in presenting her. Once she is speaking the audience falls respectfully silent, and I can't help but be impressed by the confident face she presents. She directs away the questions about what particular ability scored her a 10 in training more skilfully than I did and announces that she hopes to be the second person in the history of the Games to create a winning streak. I can't remember who the first pair were but I suspect this statement alone will ensure her the greater part of the sponsors in the crowd. They all want to back the winner, and this would be a nearly unmatched feat for their entertainment and excitement.

Following on from her, Damian is decidedly bland, and he shoots her a disgusted look at the end of his three minutes. The person who follows on from the previous Victor always gets more attention, but I suspect she would have been up there amongst the favourites regardless.

Districts Five and Six are uninteresting enough that the audience starts a low murmur of conversation despite the glare the heavy-set Aleksander Yancy shoots them. He is large enough to pose a threat, but is so softly spoken that it's hard to take him seriously as a fighter. Little Emilia from Seven breaks down into tears when asked about her family and Shovan gives her a supportive pat on the shoulder as he passes her on the way to centre stage. He is enough of a contender that the audience stays respectfully silent, especially when he says he is willing to do whatever it takes to get back home.

Eloise from Eight doesn't even make it through one question before she starts bawling and Caesar gives up on trying to get anything coherent out of her and spends the three minutes letting her sob into her velvet dress. By contrast, Stuvek's ally Felton maintains a decent composure, as do the pair from Nine. The girl Tarragon still seems surprisingly confident despite her low training score and assures us all we will see why tomorrow. Starria is greeted with raucous cheers and whistles from the contingent of young, rich men towards the front of the viewing area and plays up the sexy angle as much as she can, though the tremor in her voice suggests she is not as confident as she wants us to believe.

Her district partner Anton is quietly likeable, joking easily with Caesar though he shrugs when asked what he will amaze us with in the arena. Finally Junis steps up to the chair, starting up an easy banter with Caesar about how different the bright lights and tall buildings are from home. When he asks her about her support team, she casually mentions that she has always worked well with her Aunt Seeder and the whole crowd is thrown into an uproar. It turns out that her mother was Seeder's half-sister and that the different surnames prevented the sharp-eyed media fact-finders from realising the relationship, though undoubtedly the core Gamemakers were aware. As Caesar tries to quiet the horde I wonder absently how many people will be losing their jobs over that one.

The buzzer sounds before they can continue a proper conversation, though Junis looks pleased enough with the results. Her odds as an underdog would have just sky-rocketed with the announcement that she is related to a former Victor, and probably gained her some potential sponsors from the older elites who remembered fondly Seeder's Games. Which is bad for me as these are the people who are likely to make the small contributions for items like bread or matches early on without expecting anything in return. Now they will be throwing their change into her jars instead of mine.

From the looks the Careers are giving her, they seem to have realised the same thing and I wonder if this might work against her if it brings down their ire to focus on her as an early target. My thoughts are interrupted by Caesar introducing Sparrow Harper to the crowd, his golden hair flopping over the pale green suit as he executes a graceful bow to the audience.

There is something spellbinding about his light, childish voice as he talks about how excited he is to be here and how he can't wait to get into the arena, not because he wants to fight but because he misses the trees from home. Not that he doesn't find the Capitol beautiful in a different way. Glib-tongued and cheerfully innocent, by the time his three minutes are up he has the whole audience hanging on his every word, and the cheer as he departs is every bit as loud as it was for Francis Waverley.

Now that they have the popular support behind them, if District Eleven team up they could become a significant force in the fight to come. No-one seems to pay much attention to the pair from Twelve, whose only Victor was the first one and she rarely appears in public. The only thing either of them has in their favour is the boy's scrawny muscle and height and before I know it Caesar is wrapping up the show until tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

Enough of the boring preliminaries. Lets get these Games started.

* * *

Tomorrow. This is possibly my last night, but for some reason I don't feel as scared as I should. We file off the stage to the thunderous applause and I quickly aim for the nearest elevator, separating myself from the Careers as fast as possible. Not that they notice, as they all seem to be staring down the duo from Eleven. Stuvek follows behind and we pile into an elevator with the pair from Five and twitchy Wenda from Six. No-one says a word as we ride swiftly to the third floor, and both of us simultaneously release our held breaths as we step out into the now familiar apartment.

"I'm glad that's over with," Stuvek says, grimacing as he runs his fingers through his styled hair. In a way I agree, though I would have liked a little longer to say goodbye to my watching family and friends. Anything to slow the time until morning.

The wafting smell of food quickly distracts my district partner and I follow him into the dining room where our dinner is spread out. Pork, apparently, with applesauce and raisins and roast vegetables. One last chance to pack myself full of food before morning. Beetee and Cupros arrive shortly after and indicate not to wait for our Escort, so we dig in. I force myself to eat beyond the level of comfort, as I doubt I will sleep well anyway tonight and the extra energy might mean the difference between life and death in a few days.

No-one really seems to want to talk, or to watch the replays of the interviews when the time comes around. I drift back out to the balcony for one last glimpse of the city lights that at least seem somewhat familiar before I am thrown into the unknown realm of nature.

This time Stuvek joins me, sniffling occasionally as the wind ruffles his hair and my shortened wavy tresses. Finally he rests his head on the arms that are crossed on the railing and says softly, "I hope it's quick. And doesn't hurt too much."

There's not really a good reply to this, so I let it hang until the silence grows unbearable.

"Do you…I mean do you have a plan?"

He shrugs with a wry grimace, quickly swiping his sleeve over his eyes before he answers.

"We all agreed to take a run at the Cornucopia. Me, Morris and Felton that is. And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and come out alive with something. If not….well I'll try and take out a Career for you. That boy from One maybe."

"Thanks," I say, knowing that he has as much chance of killing Jasper Noble as I do. Which isn't quite zero, but is not far from it. He sniffs again, and I check the sliding door is shut before saying, "Look, if you do survive and I survive I won't….I mean…"

I know I promised Beetee no allies, but no-one can forgive a Victor who kills their own district partner. Coming to know him a little over the last few days I know I couldn't now kill this boy intentionally.

"Yeah, me either I guess. I can't promise the same for my allies though if we do make it. So it would probably be better for us to just…go. Like away from one another if it happened."

"Sounds fine to me."

More silence, and I see him shivering and wrapping his arms around himself, though it really isn't that cold.

"Are you-"

I don't bother finishing the question as he's clearly not ok. We're never going to be ok again regardless of the outcome tomorrow. He frowns and shakes his head, and I think about heading for bed when he finally says, "Do you remember Janey Wallace? From four years ago."

The pretty girl who died a slow and painful death at the hands of three spiteful girls. Well two spiteful girls. The third one, the one who won it in the end seemed to care more about getting it done than making Janey suffer.

"Yeah. Did you know her?"

He nods, and when he speaks I can hear a choked note in his throat grow more and more pronounced.

"She lived two doors down from us. She and Stata were best friends. My sister. Stata only just got over it all this year, then I got reaped. Our mother died years ago and Dad…..Dad is nearly gone. He keeps coughing blood and barely eats. Can't work. Stata took on extra shifts and we both had tesserae, but…"

He doesn't keep it together any longer and dissolves into a shaking, sobbing heap. I can't imagine what it would be like to watch someone you knew so well die such a horrible and terrible death. The only people I ever knew who became tributes were vaguely familiar faces from our school as there are five schools in the District.

Tentatively I reach out, the same way Beetee did for me a few nights back and he doesn't flinch away when I touch his shoulder. Finally he gasps a few deep breaths and smiles shakily when I let go.

"I'm not that scared of dying. Not if I can get it over quickly. I just don't know what will happen to my sister. She has no-one left now."

"If I do somehow win, I'll find her for you," I tell him quickly and he smiles again.

"That would be good. And I think you have a chance. A real chance, I mean. You're really smart, and you don't seem scared. And the victory parcels would help her survive even if she couldn't work. Keep her alive until she gets better."

One more thing for me to fight for, though I doubt the poor girl who seemed so upset at the reaping will ever recover. And I realise he is right on the other point. I'm not scared, not really. There is no premonitory nausea, though maybe it will wait for morning. I should be trembling in fear, imagining the horrors to come, but all my mind is drawing is a hazy image of my family telling me they believe in me. That I can do this. That I have to do this if I ever want to hear Ezra's jokes or Balia's sweet voice again. If I ever want to hold another screwdriver or design another contraption I will have to stay strong.

Suddenly I am tired, and this may be my last chance to ever sleep in a bed. I rise from the railing and say, "Well, good luck."

"Yeah, you too."

We shake hands, and I leave him there to the comforting familiarity of bright city lights, slipping away to my room before our mentors see me. There is one last thing I want to do before I go to bed, and I deliberately saved a piece of paper for it. Though I guess I could have always asked for more. It's not easy to begin, but once I get the first few words down the rest flow easily.

_Dear Everyone,_

_I am writing this not long after you would have seen me on stage. I couldn't really say goodbye there, as I didn't want to look weak or scared so I am saying it now. Mom and Dad, you have been so good to me for all these years, I hope you find peace in the knowledge that I am not afraid of whatever happens._

_Ezra, thank you for being there whenever I needed you. If you and Laney name your child after me I will come back and haunt you forever. Name her or him something nice instead. I mean it. _

_Balia, keep smiling. And singing and being wonderful. I love you little angel. Be strong. _

_Malcy, I never really got a chance to know you, but if you ask your big brother or sister they have some funny stories they can tell you. Don't believe all of Ezra's though._

_Pella, I can't take your advice. But if you're reading this I guess you already know that. No matter what else, you're my big sister and I do love you. _

_All of you, do something amazing with your lives. Please. For me. _

_Wiress_

It barely fills half the page, but it's all I really need to say. I sketch a few things into the margins, some cog-wheels like the ones Stuvek had on his suit and a vague impression of the Capitol skyline. A poorly-drawn angel near Balia's name, like the beautiful pendant Grandma always wore, from the old old days before Panem. Finally I fold it over and address it _to the Ling family, just in case_. Hopefully Beetee will see it in here and take it with him after I have left as I'm not sure if this sort of thing is allowed.

I was sure I would never sleep before the Games, but I must drift off fairly rapidly because I feel refreshed when Dido shakes me lightly awake.

"It is time," she says, though I notice the sky is still dark through the un-drawn curtains.

"Do I need to bring anything?" I ask as I follow her gesture to the door.

"No it will all be supplied," she replies abruptly, and marches swiftly to the door, pausing briefly when she sees the letter and my other drawings on the side table, before continuing on to the lifts. A hovercraft is waiting for us when we reach the rooftop, and the ladder freezes me in place the moment I grasp it. Some sort of static taser, only at a low enough voltage to not cause pain. I suspect they have a few higher settings for these which could be used on someone who tried to illegally climb aboard, that would be very unpleasant.

A white-coated man injects a tracker into my arm before my muscles are unclenched, and I ask out of curiosity whether it is radio- or microwave frequency, but he frowns and walks away in silence. Maybe he's afraid I want to use the information somehow, though I can't think what I would do with a transmitting device the size of a pen-tip.

Dido is reeled up after me, and her short, straight hair seems not to like the static electricity, as it is sticking out at odd angles. I know how completely inappropriate it is to laugh right now, but I can't help it and it sounds a little hysterical even to me.

She doesn't seem too offended and we sit together, watching out the window as the Capitol disappears, replaced with green and brown earth below. I try to force down some food, though I can only stomach a few bites of toast before I start feeling ill. Though not the deep nauseous sensation like I had on the morning of my reaping. Maybe this is a sign that I will survive the days to come. Or maybe my acceptance of my possible death isn't enough to trigger it.

We pass over one bank of lights that must be a district city, and over several areas of patched land that look like the text-book photos of crops before the window tinting activates. About forty-five minutes, and to the South-east then South. So that was probably District Eleven or District Four's city.

We disembark straight into the underground, where I instinctively flinch away from the white-clad Peacekeeper who gestures our direction. The numbers are supposedly randomly allocated, alternating boy-girl, though it is rare for two tributes who are from the same district, or who have shown signs of allying to end up beside one another. Usually they try to arrange them so that the main contenders are spread a little apart to make it more interesting for the viewers.

If I am lucky I will be far away from the more dangerous players, safe enough to venture a short distance in for some sort of supplies. Then again, the Careers tend to run straight for the Cornucopia to get the best weapons, so maybe it would be better not to risk a fight with someone like Shovan or Aleksander, who could easily best me.

My knees start shaking as I shower and change into the clothes Dido hands me: a soft, pale green shirt with short sleeves, green-brown trousers with pockets on the thighs and just below the knees, held up with a metal-clip belt. Short white socks and grey shoes that curl under the ball of my ankle. A darker green jacket with orange lining, though it too is light-weight material.

"It will be hot," Dido says as I fiddle with the zipper on the jacket. I would rather have it done up and be a little hot than risk it slipping off in the madness that marks the beginning of the Games, though my trembling fingers aren't up to the task.

Dido flashes a quick smile and steps forward to help, before drawing out the ring I had almost forgotten about. It seems to be in one piece, and they even let me keep the silk strand I was using for a cord. I slide it over my head, burying it under my shirt so that it won't get caught in anything. Then I think again and pull it outside of my clothes so that my family will see it on the screen.

My stylist doesn't say anything about this choice, and sits down in one of the two chairs provided by the food table. I try one last time to force down some more food, meat and cheese, which I will probably not see in the arena, but I only manage a few bites.

Finally I take the empty chair, trying to calm my suddenly spiked heart rate.

"How long?" I ask Dido, who has done this a good number of times before.

She gives her usual laconic shrug and says, "Who knows. It changes from year to year. We were one of the earlier ones to leave this time so it might be some minutes. No, it doesn't go in district order, but platform order," she adds to my unspoken question.

Abrupt as she is, her motionless presence helps me draw a point of calm and I try to imitate her collected poise while we wait. Suddenly I realise I never got a chance to say goodbye to Beetee. Then again, he wouldn't want me saying goodbye; it suggests I am giving up hope in coming back. I will just have to give myself an opportunity to do so in the Arena, which means surviving the imminent bloodbath. I can do it, I can do it.

This time I am glad that Juliette cut my nails short and rounded, as I would have bleeding hands by now if she hadn't. Slowly I unclench my fists, willing my body to relax as much as it can.

Trust my intuition. That was pretty much the last thing Beetee said to me, and I will need it and more. Deep breaths, close my eyes, focus on one line at a time. The connections flow from this point out to the next junction, following the path of the circuitry that is still painted on my nails. I can see it in my mind's eye, following one line to the next and it soothes me as it always does.

I don't realise I am humming until Dido makes a questioning noise, and I quickly stop.

"I don't believe I have heard that one before." She says softly, though her words echo from the cold concrete walls.

"Something my Grandma taught me and my sister," I tell her, the hitch in my voice when I think of Balia all too audible.

She starts to say something, but we are interrupted by an artificially toned female voice ordering me to prepare for launch.

My knees are still shaking as I walk over to the metal plate and I will them to stop as I'll need every bit of running ability I possess.

"Remember Wiress, keep your head. You are smart enough to win if you keep it together."

Dido actually smiles properly as she inclines her head and I nod back, not sure if I want to trust my voice right now.

A slight hiss precedes the lowering of the tube around me, cutting off all sound and slowly, slowly the plate starts to rise. The pitch black lasts only a matter of seconds and I don't have time to wonder if I will ever see daylight again before the golden light blinds me. Quickly I shade my eyes with my fingers, giving me a few seconds head start on everyone else at seeing the Arena. And the first thing I see is green. Green grass, a few shades lighter than the jacket spreads from the platform ring all the way to the glistening golden structure thirty yards away. A little over half that distance behind me, and curving around both ways is a range of greens, from the deep shade of my jacket to the pale tone of Caesar's hair, thirty feet high and completely encircling us. For one terrifying moment I think that they have trapped us in an Arena the size of the original ones, but then I see the narrow gaps in the verdant walls spaced equidistantly so that there is one for every four tributes.

And my heart lifts. Because I know, even without seeing, what will lie beyond those narrow exits. I have seen them before in books and films, though none so grand as this. And if I am right, and I know I am right, my memory and intuition is about to give me a key advantage, enough to give me hope and stop my trembling as the plate reaches level with the ground and locks in place.

The arena is a maze.


	13. Chapter 13

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Forty-eighth Annual Hunger Games begin."

Sixty seconds to decide where I am going to go. I have to go in for something now, because with a few basic supplies I really do have a chance. Blind corners and narrow corridors will be ideal for my traps, and I will be able to lose my pursuers in the twists and turns of a maze that I can draw in my mind the same way I draw circuit diagrams.

My heart jumps a little when I look to my left and see Jasper from One, but he is already staring at the pile of spears leaning against the near side of the Cornucopia and will hopefully run straight for them, giving me time. To my right is Stuvek's ally Felton, who is glancing around, eyes wide with fear. Past him is Francis from Four, who also has eyes for something in the mouth of the golden horn. Normally I would worry about being placed so close to the highest-rated tributes but if I am quick enough their single-mindedness might work in my favour.

My time is about half up, so I search the lumps and piles scattered on the grass for something good. There is a hefty pack nearly twenty yards in, but it's a little to my left and I don't want to get that close to the deadly boy from One. Near my feet are a pair of bread rolls and only a few yards further there is a wooden stake. Potentially useful, but I could make my own easily enough. Then I see it. About ten yards in, a little to the right. It looks like a satchel, like the one I carry school books in, and will not be as comfortable or practical as a proper pack. But that means it probably has better contents. Or maybe I'm mad. But Beetee said to trust my intuition, and Felton is also angling to his right slightly, where a metallic glint about fifteen yards from him suggests a knife.

It is my best option, and I set myself to do it, willing my legs to hold up long enough to get me out of here. My mental countdown hits zero about three seconds before the official one, but I wait for the gong before racing forwards. One foot in front of the other, my heart leaping to my mouth when I trip over my own feet, but I land beside the satchel and snatch it up as a scream rents the air. A girl's scream, though it came from the far side of the circle, out of my sight. Another yell, then another, and I suddenly remember to run when I see Jasper heading back out towards me with a spear clasped in his hands.

The satchel bounces uncomfortably off my thighs as I race back towards the ring of platforms, but the weight tells me I made the right choice. Feeling suddenly confident I even bend down and scoop up one of the bread rolls on the way past my disc, aiming straight for the narrow gap that was almost directly behind me.

A little part of me wants to slow and look back, to see if anyone is chasing, but my brain overrides that idea and I keep running, trying to shut out all sounds, everything except the grass beneath my feet. As I start through the narrow pathway, I can see the hedges are a blend of plants all grown together. Bright red and orange berries are dotted here and there, and the whole thing is wreathed in a creeper with long, sharp thorns and vibrantly coloured flowers. Probably to stop anyone climbing over or forcing their way through.

After fifty yards the passage opens up into a cross-path, and I breathe a sigh of relief that my guess was correct. The left-hand turn narrows visibly compared to the right, so I go that way in the hope that any heavier-set pursuit chooses the more open path, but it quickly turns back on itself half a dozen times, and by the time I step out onto another wider junction I am not entirely sure which way I need to turn.

At this stage, one way is as good as the other, though I want to make my way eventually to the outer wall of the maze. Once I have those two markers, I will easily be able to draw the map in my mind, though I do my best now to watch every turn as I trot along the wider path to the right. I doubt the Arena will be very big in direct distance, as the twists and turns inside will provide the extra space for us to spread out and hide, at least for the first few days. After that it will be easy enough for the Gamemakers to block of certain areas or even the outer rings, forcing the survivors closer and closer together for the grand finale.

The adrenaline starts to run out as I pass the first turn-off, but something about the dark, narrow passage makes me shiver so I continue on. My intuition has so far got me clear of the bloodbath, uninjured and with supplies. I might as well keep listening to it.

I slow to a walk as the pathway takes some minor twists, the few branching paths ending after twenty or thirty yards that force me to double-back until eventually I reach a fork, equally splitting in both directions. Unthinkingly I take the right-hand path, stopping briefly to try and get my breath back as I am not used to such vigorous exercise. In fact, now that I think about it, it is probably the furthest I have ever run in my life. And I did it. I escaped the deadly beginning of the Games.

I can't help it when the laughter comes. I clamp down in it fairly quickly, as I realise I might look mad to those watching, and whisper "I'm alive," loud enough for a camera to pick up in case one happens to be on me. But of course there won't be, not while there is still fighting at the Cornucopia.

The giddiness of my success fades in an instant when I turn the next corner and see a familiar figure racing along the path towards me. He obviously spots me at the same moment I see him, and we both freeze about thirty feet apart before he laughs and turns away, his fleet footed retreat as swift as his name suggests. It seems little Sparrow Harper had no trouble acquiring a full pack of supplies, though it doesn't really surprise me. He was nowhere near me at the start though, so one of the other exits from the killing ground must have led this way. I quickly turn back, planning on taking the other fork at the junction, but when I approach I hear the rustling of footsteps and dodge down a side-path just in case.

Left, right, right again. Straight ahead at a cross junction, then another left. The twists and turns start blurring in my mind, so I decide to stop and refresh myself, as I don't want to lose my possibly greatest advantage of knowing my way around. My legs are just about ready to give way when I find the apparent cul-de-sac, past a cloud of the stinging midges. There are some familiar clumps of red berries wound about the hedges, level with my eyes. They have the three-pointed leaf that marks them as safe to eat, though I take just the one at first to be sure. Even better there is a tiny crawl-through at ground level, though I'm not sure I'd want to use it unless my life depended on it as it is ringed with the finger-length thorns and I have no idea where the parallel passage leads.

An emergency escape route, if the biting midge cloud doesn't discourage anyone who would follow me down here, food to eat, and a position of relative safety. At least for now. I more collapse than sit on the ground, my cramped, aching muscles slowly unknotting as I massage them. Suddenly I remember the strap digging into my shoulder and unloop the satchel to see what I have gained.

The first thing I encounter is a water bottle, metal, about the length of my forearm and half-full. It takes all my self control to not drink the entire thing straight away, as it may not be easy to find water in the twisting, turning corners of this maze. A bottle of iodine and a small swatch of the parasite-testing strips is next, followed by a ball of twine. A packet of dried beef and a small packet of dried fruit, as well as the bread roll I collected. And a solid metal bar, a foot long, which gave the bag most of its weight. Still, I have water and some food. The twine will be useful once I find somewhere to set up some traps. The thorny brambles all through the hedges provide me with all the spikes I need, and I can always use the bar as a club if I need to defend myself, though my arms will probably only hold out for one or two swings.

I have a chance. A real honest to goodness chance at making it out alive. I lie back, waiting for my body to recover from the exertion until the boom of the cannons makes me bolt upright.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. A little below average for the bloodbath, which means the Careers will be eager and hunting. If they all made it. Nine of us, dead. Suddenly I am horrified and all the elation I felt at surviving turns to nausea, and I lose what little I ate for breakfast on the ground. One of those nine is probably Stuvek, whose sister just watched her essentially last relative die. The first scream I heard sounded like one of the smaller girls. Berrily from Five? Wenda from Six? Thirteen-year-old Emilia, who cried about her family? Maybe even undersized Viola from twelve.

What about wide-eyed Felton beside me in the circle of platforms? Did Seeder's niece Junis survive the probable onslaught from the Careers? I didn't see her near me, so the two most dangerous ones probably didn't get a chance at her. Then again this is exactly what someone like Lucinda or Damian would want to raise their credibility.

I won't find out until after sunset, probably a good six or seven hours away. The sun is starting to burn my skin, so unused to its touch, and I remember the advice of the first-aid trainer and crawl into the shaded side. The last thing I need is blisters and dehydration from something as simple as sunburn. Every part of me aches as I curl up into a ball, and I want to do something to show I haven't given up, but I just can't force myself upright.

Finally I settle on working loose one of the thorny branches and prying off several handfuls of the thorns, each longer than my middle finger. And razor sharp, I discover when one slips and embeds its point into my left thumb. I slowly draw it out, and suck on the wound, nearly laughing aloud again when the thought strikes me about what Juliette would say right now. Fussing about scars and cuts seemed to be her favourite occupation.

Almost too late I consider the possibility it might be poisoned, though it surely would have been brought up by the plants trainers if that was the case. Regardless I drag the thumb from my mouth, spitting out the blood and rinsing with a small amount of my precious water just in case. I use one of the leaves to wrap the small wound, holding it in place until the blood clots. It's stupid little things like this that might get me killed. Not paying attention, zoning out, losing focus. I can't afford to do it in here. But even now as I sit in the shade I find my mind jumping back to days in the workshop, when I sliced open my hand on the angle grinder, the regular burns from the soldering iron when I let my mind wander as I am doing now.

_Snap out of it Wiress!_

The bleeding has stopped, so I force myself to my feet and start collecting berries from the creepers near my head. I quickly clear this patch, eating a few handfuls as I go and spy another bunch twenty feet further down. Luckily I am paying enough attention to notice the difference in the leaves that marks them as poisonous, though the next clump ten feet further are good. Unfortunately they're also not in easy reach and I curse myself for not taking Stuvek's suggestion to get a little practice on the climbing walls as I eye the surrounding hedge. The thorny plant seems sparse just here, so I scramble my way up about one body-length to where I can reach the lowest bunches. It takes much longer to collect them now that I need one hand to hang on, and eventually I just let them drop onto the ground below, where I can gather them up later. I have nearly finished with this patch when a sudden rustling noise just above my head startles me. Imagining some monster, or one of the bigger tributes about to come crashing through I let go and slide to the ground, jarring my feet and tailbone when they make contact with the not-quite-so-soft earth.

Even I have to laugh at myself when the pair of tiny birds flit over me, chirping sweetly as they wing their way above the green walls. If only I could fly like them, then I could escape this Arena, fly to safety. Back to my family, who are probably watching me right now.

That knowledge is enough to make me sit up and gather the clumps of ripe fruit, which I stash for now in the front pocket of the satchel. The juicy sweetness makes up for the lack of water, though my stomach is still growling at what I guess is a few hours before dinner. Where has the time gone?

More importantly, I hope that the temperature doesn't drop too much overnight, as I have nothing to protect me from the cold. Just in case I sit the metal bar out in the sun, where it will warm up, and should hold the heat for a little while longer once the sun goes down.

I spy one last clump of berries, again well above my head, and tell myself that if I just do this then I can have a rest. It takes me three tries to climb high enough, dodging the thorn patches, to reach the fruits, and the second time I scratch my face on the way down. Luckily the third attempt is good, and I even find a path to reach the highest fruits, over two thirds of the way up the hedge. High enough to see through a dip in the opposite hedge, where a metallic flash of something distant catches my eye in the fading light.

The outer wall perhaps, or a corner if the maze isn't circular. Whatever it is, it must be tall to be seen at this angle, and possibly useful. If I could set my traps around it, maybe other tributes would find their way there. It doesn't look far, but given the winding, twisting nature of the paths, I suspect it might take all day to travel that distance, if I can even reach it from here at all. Tomorrow then.

As for tonight, I will need rest to recover the creeping ache in my legs and back. I drop the last of the sweet fruits to the ground and scramble my way back down, inordinately proud of myself when I reach the ground without slipping once this time.

To kill the last hour or so of daylight I clear some of the grass, packing down the small square of dirt next to me, and use one of the thorns to draw out what I know of the maze so far. If I can set it in my mind before I sleep, I know I will wake with it imbedded in my brain, and I work my way back through every footstep until the light fades and the temperature drops a few degrees.

It's not too cold, especially huddled around the metal bar, and I might even get some sleep tonight once I see who the survivors are. My eyelids are starting to droop when the anthem plays, and I spot the Capitol seal almost directly overhead before it flickers to the first photo of the dead. Of course it's Stuvek, and even though I knew it was a near certainty, I still feel the tears on my cheeks. He didn't deserve to die like this, though I hope for his sake it was a quick and painless end.

Next up is Berrily from Five, though her weedy district partner must have made it. That means all the Careers survived, and are probably already out hunting. Twitchy Wenda didn't make it either, though strong Aleksander did. Emilia dead, not surprising. Shovan, the tall, powerful boy from Seven who was one of the underdog favourites also down. That's unexpected.

The crybaby girl from Eight, though Felton must have survived, since the next picture is Morris Tarly from Nine, his new-found sword skills obviously not enough to mix it up with the properly trained tributes. Maybe Felton was the footsteps I heard behind me when I turned back to the forked path, though I'm surprised he also got away from the fight with Francis and Jasper so close. Pretty Starria from Ten is also down. That won't please all those backers who like the attractive girls to stick around. Her poorly rated district partner Anton must have survived though, as did both from Eleven as the final photo is Viola from Twelve.

So that leaves all six Careers, Dalton, Aleksander, Felton, Anton, Sparrow and Junis. And two more besides me. Tobias from Twelve, and one other who I can't think of, though my mind jumps for a second to Stuvek. But no, he is dead. Might have even been one of the yells I heard at the start. I didn't even see him, so focused on my own survival that I barely looked beyond the closest platforms.

At least now he doesn't have to suffer and I won't be faced with killing him. As the Capitol seal vanishes I curl back down on the ground, pressed against the hedge and try not to cry too loud as I slowly drift off.


	14. Chapter 14

_I am back on the platform, facing the Cornucopia again, only this time Jasper is looking right at me, smirking and licking his lips. He's going to kill me first! The gong sounds and I run away from him, around the curve of tributes to where the boy from Two has Balia pinned down, beating her to death. She screams as he picks up her ragged form and throws her, and suddenly I feel a sword pierce my back. Jasper from One stands over me, laughing as I die, everything going black and cloudy…_

I wake to find a thorn digging into my spine through my jacket. With a groan I drag myself upright and wrestle it free of the material. Why didn't I think to check for thorns before I lay down here?

"Stupid, stupid stupid," I mutter under my breath, then immediately clamp a hand over my mouth when I hear a ragged breath from something large nearby. Drawing back as far as I can, I look around the moonlit path for whatever made the noise. My heart leaps again when I see a pair of eyes staring back at me from the crawl-through, and at first I think it's some sort of animal about to eat me. Then I realise they are human eyes, wide with fear and pain just like the last time I saw them.

The second Felton spots me he tries to retreat back through the crawl-space, though the razor-sharp points catch on parts of his body and I can hear him whimpering as he scrambles out the other side. From that brief glimpse I got in the moonlight, he looked terrible, his face and body already a mess from the thorns. I peer through the passage, where he is trying to drag himself upright and I can see something sticking out of his back as he collapses in a heap on the ground.

I am debating whether or not to try and crawl through to help him when the cannon fires, and I push myself back away from the sight of his now dead body. A sticky dampness puzzles me for a moment before I realise it is his blood from the hedge, literally coating my hands and clamp down on a scream as I scrub them clean on the grass. If he hadn't pushed himself so quickly through that gap, trying to flee from me he might still be alive. I could have helped him, saved him. But then what. If I want to get out of here alive then he and everyone else must be dead. Maybe it is better for him to die now, before the starvation and thirst, or infection set in.

As the hovercraft raises the body up above the hedges I get a brief glimpse of the lit figure to see the object in his back is an arrow. Which means someone got their hands on a bow and is a decent shot. But who? The only ones I saw using the archery station in training were Sparrow and Junis, and Sparrow was unarmed when I saw him.

Junis didn't seem the type to shoot an unarmed fifteen-year-old boy in the back. Then again she did have some training with Seeder, and she probably knows better than most of us that only one comes out alive. It's possible one of the Careers could have used it. Francis, for example. She was right next to Felton at the start, and I didn't see anything else during training that would have rated her a 10. It must have been her.

I feel a little better having worked through this, like I would any other problem, but I doubt I will sleep any more tonight. The nearly-full moon provides enough light to see the path, and from the angle I am guessing it is only a few hours until it is replaced by the sun. Might as well get started.

I can't bring myself to use the now widened crawl-through, and instead double back down the path I followed before. The cloud of midges has vanished, which meant I was less protected than I thought, sleeping out here. Angling in the direction I think is away from the Cornucopia, I try to pace myself, switching the satchel from shoulder to shoulder when one side gets sore as I walk.

Quickly I am lost in the rhythm, one foot in front of another in the surrounding haze of black shadows and green leaves, following one turn, then the next. I eat a handful of my berries as the sun rises which helps me focus a little, and I remember to take better notice of my surroundings for my mental map as I keep walking.

This probably saves my life as I walk around a corner into a nearly solid wall of insect nests. Bees, wasps, tracker jackers. Just about everything I've ever heard of with wings and a stinger. If I was still in my half-daze I might have taken that one more crucial step that would have collided me with the structure, but I manage to stop an inch in front of the musky-scented humming wall. Slowly, carefully I take one, two, three steps backwards, praying that the insects don't notice me there. A handful of the smaller yellow and black striped bees land on my arm and neck, and a sudden sharp pain on my wrist indicates a sting, but I'm pretty sure these ones are relatively harmless. Inching my way back along the path, I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the turn to the wider thoroughfare and take the time to mark this particular turn-off in my mind.

My wrist continues to burn as I keep walking and when I stop again about an hour later I notice something dark under the skin. Wishing for my longer fingernails, I eventually resort to using one of the thorns to dig out the stinger, though it leaves me bleeding from a larger cut. Soon enough the blood loss might start to tell, especially if I don't find water. But there's not much I can do about that now, except keep walking. One foot in front of another, exploring passage after narrow winding passage as I search for the outer wall.

By mid-day I know I am in trouble when I finish the last of my water and berries and still feel dry. The only fruits I have seen so far have been high enough that I would need to climb over ten feet up, requiring strength that I don't think I have right now. The dried fruit, salty meat strips and now-hard bread will only make it worse, and I try and push away memories of the cool, sweet amber juice that I had all the last week. Even the slightly bitter brown-tinged district water would be delectable now.

There is nothing to do but keep walking.

I do know that Beetee can and will send me water if I don't find it, though the longer he waits the more it will cost. I can only hope that the metallic gleam I saw through the branches marks some sort of well or spring, though I will have to be careful of other tributes seeking elusive water sources too. Most of them will climb much better than I do, and I wouldn't be surprised if most of the survivors thought to do so as a way to get an advantage in this maze. After all they don't have my memory.

At least this traipsing does me some good. Unlike the others, I'm not wandering lost, inadvertently looping through the same dead ends and pathways as they might be. Every step I take is added to the map I am tracing in my mind, each connection leading to the next, just another complicated circuit that I need to pick apart. The more I can get down in these early days before hunger and thirst and lack of sleep start afflicting my recall the better. I am slowly making headway, and soon enough I must stumble across water of some sort. The question is can I do so before I stumble across another tribute trying to kill me.

I don't want to be like Felton last night, who might have been staggering about with that arrow through him for hours until the exhaustion and blood loss finally took their toll. The best thing I could probably do right now is try and lead them back towards that mass of insect nests and try and get out of the way.

I start humming as I walk, matching my footsteps to the steady paced children's rhymes that spring to mind. It's probably a bad idea to make noise in case it warns my opponents of my approach, but I don't have the breath to spare for more than the softest of tones, and I need something to keep me moving. The exhaustion is starting to seep into my limbs again, with the sun beating down to compound my thirst. Finally, after a series of short, quick turn-backs I find myself suddenly in the open, facing a most unexpected sight.

The wooden trunk reminds me of the great power poles that line our district's roads, down to the horizontal two-foot long struts attached at an even spacing up the length, providing a ladder of sorts. Instead of a run of cables on outstretched arms the pole is topped with a sheltered platform, maybe twenty-five feet from the ground. The roof tapers quickly to a sharp metallic point that sticks up a further six feet and is obviously what I saw in the fading light yesterday afternoon.

For a moment I wonder if the metal point is a trap, a lightning rod that is familiar to every District Three resident from Beetee's Games, but the rest of the tower appears to be wood, which is a terrible dry conductor. And there have been no signs of clouds in the sky.

Besides, if I can get up onto that roof I might be able to get a look at the whole maze, spread out beneath me. Re-settling the satchel on the other shoulder I start the slow climb from rung to rung, testing each one for stability before I put my weight on it. The third-last rung swings loose at my tug and I'm forced to stretch to reach the next one, thankful that I am those few inches taller than average. Most from our district wouldn't have made it, and I lie on the wooden floor, gasping for breath for a good time, letting the ache in my arms recede.

When I sit up the strap of the satchel catches around my throat and by the time I wrestle it free I've realised why it was so hard to climb. The metal bar must weigh a good five or six pounds, and could easily have been left at the base. Now that I do have it up here, I can keep it as a projectile in case someone else finds this place and tries to climb up after me.

Continuing that thought, I pull out the twine from the bag, quickly tying a loop in one end, which I lower down to hook around the loose slat. Pulling it so it is carefully horizontal, I slide the twine back off and reel it up. Now if anyone finds me here I can wait until they reach that loose grip and drop the bar on them. A fall from nearly twenty feet will probably do even the sturdier tributes some damage. Except maybe the Careers, but if they find me here I'm probably dead anyway to Francis's shooting.

To stop them I will need something a little more complex, though I realise as I sit up and look around the small clearing that this is an ideal area for me to set up my plan. There are only the two entrances, the one I came through and one directly opposite it, and I know at least one path has a number of sudden blind turns in it. If I set up a few noise traps further out, and some more complex snares a little closer I can use this tower as a base, yet still have enough warning to escape if anyone approaches.

But before that I will need to find water.

Standing on the platform, my eyes are just inches below the top of the hedge, though it is a good ten yards away horizontally so I can't try to climb over to it. The only way I can get a look over the maze is if I somehow climb up onto the sharply tapering metal roof, which appears to be completely devoid of any sort of hand-holds. The four wooden support struts that it rests on continue a few inches past the metal brackets, which would maybe give me somewhere to wedge my foot. Then again it is a thirty foot drop and I know my balance isn't that good. If only I had a cross-bar of some sort. Bar.

Suddenly I feel a whole lot less stupid for hauling this piece of metal all the way up here. Lashing it tight in the pole-roof joint with the twine, I give it a quick wriggle. It doesn't budge. Good. Now all I need to do is get up on top of it somehow without plummeting to my death. Wishing yet again I had thought to practice some climbing I try to find a way to pull myself up, but the bar only sticks out about 4 inches on either side of the pole.

Finally I find a way, gripping the bottom of the roof and wrapping my legs around the bar, then twisting myself over. It feels like I've strained every muscle in my back and side, but if I find water it will be worth it. Slowly, legs wobbling, I stand up, leaning in to the pleasantly warm metal surface. The roof tapers rapidly to a point, which at the limit of my reach is thin enough to wrap a hand around, though I nearly fall when I touch the other side, still bathed in late afternoon sunlight and snatch back my burning fingers.

I wait until my heart stops trying to throw itself from my mouth, and wrap my jacket sleeves over my hands to protect them from the hot metal before turning my head to look out over the green vista below. To the right I can see the familiar winding paths that I spent the day following , or at least the wider ones. The narrower passageways are swallowed up by the overhead branches, making them impossible to see from above. Which means I, and anyone else who does this will only see the main thoroughfares of the maze. Still good for me since I am the only one likely to be able to map from the ground level. Further beyond these paths I see a metallic glimmer rising above the hedges. Another tower, probably, identical to this one. When I turn my head to the left I see a similar sight at about the same distance. A symmetrical arrangement then, four towers in a square equidistant from the central Cornucopia, which must lie, like the fourth tower straight ahead past the spire that blocks my vision.

Pushing myself around the spire a little, I can see two metallic glints that confirm this. So what about water? Besides the four metallic points and the occasional lighter green pathways, there is nothing visible in the wide green sea before me. To my right and left I can see the taller, thicker hedge-lines that suggest the edges of the maze, though they are not perpendicular to one another. Straight edges, but not rectangular; converging to a point not too far behind me, which means somehow I have to turn around.

A gust of wind ripples through my clothes and hair as I start to turn and I instinctively grab for the spire again, ignoring the heat and pulling myself tight against it. Of course the Gamemakers are watching. In fact, everyone in Panem might be watching right now, and it just wouldn't look right to have someone up so high without a bit of wind to bother them.

But I am doing something interesting, so they probably won't try and kill me. Unless they think I'm cheating by trying to see the Arena from above. After all, they don't know that I will do just as well from the ground.

"Water," I say aloud, hoping that whatever nearby camera they have focused on me can pick up the sound over the wind. "I need to find water. Then I can get down and never have to go up again. Just turn around and look for water."

Maybe I'll look mad for talking to myself, but at least the Gamemakers will know I'm not planning on staying up here to draw out a map and might give me a chance to do what I need. They don't need to know that I already have the image firmly sketched in my mind.

A few seconds later the wind dies down to the occasional tickling gust, and I brace myself again to make the turn. Slowly, slowly I cross over my feet, hoping that the twine lashing holds my weight on one side for the few seconds I need to make the swap. Then in one quick motion I spin, leaning back as much as possible and bracing with my palms back against the slippery metal.

As I thought, the corner is not far beyond my tower. Not even 300 yards in direct distance, though probably closer to a mile through the winding pathways. Even better I can see a reflective glimmer where the hedges meet that can only be what I so desperately need. The branches are closed over enough between here and the clearing that I can't see a direct path, but I can do that on the ground now that I know where I need to get to. Just as soon as I work out how to get down.

Apparently the Gamemakers decide I've had long enough to look, because the wind starts up again, only this time I'm facing outwards, without anything to grip on to. As another gust tugs on my jacket the thirty-something feet to the ground suddenly looks a lot further and I feel my stomach drop away.

_Calm, Wiress. Keep calm. _

I clench my jaw until my teeth ache and slowly bend my knees. If I can just slide back down so that I am sitting in the fork I should be able to swing back around into the tower. I'm nearly half-way there when the cannon fires and despite how distant it sounds it still makes me jump and my foot slides right off the bar into empty space.

I scream as I fall, and suddenly choke it off as my arm wraps around the metal length, tenuously securing me as I dangle far above the ground. I scream again when the pain in my shoulder registers and I nearly let go, then my instinct kicks in and I launch myself for any part of the tower I can reach with my body. Writhing about, I manage to slam my head into the hard metal and my vision blurs, but with another wrenching twist I suddenly land on the wooden floor of the tower platform.

Waiting for the rainbow-sprinkled grey to fade, I find myself laughing, though it turns into a groan when I try and sit up. My shoulder and side ache ferociously and the crack to the head must have re-opened the scratch on my face, because there is blood dripping in my eye. My mouth is parched dry and my whole body is trembling, but it doesn't matter. I'm alive and I know where to find water. It shouldn't take more than an hour or two, once I regain the strength to climb back down.

Using the pole for support I pull myself upright. While I wait for the trembling to stop I untie the bar, hopefully signifying to the Gamemakers that I don't intend to try that again. Besides, both the bar and twine have other uses and if someone tries climbing up after me I don't want to be scrambling with knots.

Finally my knees decide to hold my weight and I repack my satchel for the journey down, leaving the bar in the middle of the platform. No point hauling it up and down if I don't need to, and I'm not sure I can make the climb another two times with its extra weight.

The sun is heading towards the horizon as I head back into the twisting greenery, and I just hope I can find something to drink before the night is out.


	15. Chapter 15

Hi guys, sorry for the delay in posting. The motel I've been at for the last two weeks has no internet access. On the upside, I've finished the story.

* * *

In the end it takes less than an hour to find water. Either I'm getting better at guessing the right path or they all lead here eventually, but I quickly arrive in the open space I saw from the tower roof. The water seems to be flowing in from under the hedges, though I suspect any attempt to swim under would result in an unpleasant end. Not that I can swim anyway.

Thirsty as I am, I'm not so desperate yet to not check the water for parasites. The first strip I dip in near the water's edge comes back the bright red colour that means dangerous levels, so I clamber out over the rocks to where the flow is faster. I nearly turn my ankle on the slippery stones several times, but eventually make it out to the end of the run. This time the strip shows mostly green, so I fill the bottle, adding the iodine drops as the instructor showed me.

Scrambling carefully back, I wedge the bottle between two decent rocks and spend the half-hour cleaning the blood from my face and searching amongst the pool's edge for suitably sharp stones. I've seen enough rock-weapons from previous Games to know that a stone blade can be as effective as a steel one, and I will need something to sharpen staves and cut vines if I am to build defences around my tower.

Finally my mental timer ticks over and I drink down the bottle a few mouthfuls at a time, savouring each one. It's so clean and sweet compared to the water back home, and all the sweeter after nearly two days of rationing and thirst. Once it's empty I make the hop out to the rocks again to refill it. The bottle should last a day or two if I ration it carefully, but I will still probably need to make this journey several times if my plan to outlast the others succeeds. As I am clambering back, a rustling from the hedge to my left alerts me and I stop on the large rock, waiting to see if it is a fellow tribute.

As soon as I see the furred head I let out a sigh of relief, though the small size doesn't mean the creature is harmless. Long and sinewy, it would probably reach past my knee if it stood upright, and as it bends its head to lap at the water I can see the fine row of pointed teeth. Presumably it can deal with the parasites in the water, and I could deal with it if it tried to attack me alone. I just hope there aren't more of them about as I hurry back into the greenery, my satchel loaded with new stone knives.

The sun sets completely before I'm half-way back, but I feel comfortable about the path and continue on, pausing only when the anthem blares overhead. Belatedly I remember the cannon I heard while on top of the tower. It was distant enough that I didn't stop to worry about who or where the death occurred. Was it Junis, finally caught by the Careers? Or maybe she fought back and took one of them down. I wouldn't be surprised. What about Anton from Ten, who scored so low in training?

The first face to appear is Felton from Eight. Unconsciously I clench my hands, trying not to remember the sticky feel of his blood that had coated them last night. The other is the girl from Nine, Tarragon, who I had completely forgotten about. In the interviews she seemed so sure her secret skill would save her. Apparently it wasn't enough.

I slow my approach as I near the last turn before the tower, peering cautiously through the foliage to make sure no-one else has found my hide-away. After five minutes without any sound or movement to suggest otherwise I make the climb back up to the sheltered platform. As I soak the dry bread in a bit of water for dinner, the grating insect song that they always play in outdoor scenes in movies starts up and the stars above begin to shine.

It all seems too easy. Usually the tributes from our district are dead in the first hour. The few that escape tend to be picked off by the vindictive Career pack during those early days before the strongest tributes begin fighting amongst themselves. At nearly two days, I've outlasted almost every one of Three's tributes in the last decade. In fact the last one who made it this far was….

My appetite vanishes at the thought of Janey Wallace, both her agonising end and the knowledge that she was Stuvek's friend chasing away any desire to keep eating. Except she did what Junis did; outshone the Careers at their own game, and was targeted accordingly. To them I'm an average nobody, a lucky survivor who they can pick off at their leisure. Right now it's probably worth more than several years of training. And if Junis can keep them distracted long enough for the faults to appear in their alliance, my chances will be increased even further. As long as she doesn't lead them here.

Curling up on the wooden slats with the bar clenched in my fist, I have to hope that no-one will find this place before morning.

-xXx-

It's amazing how long seemingly simple tasks like collecting and stripping vines and sharpening stakes ends up taking. By the time the sun sets on the third day in the arena I have several basic tripwires in place, attached to the largest chunks of wood I could find to hang so that they will clatter if triggered. Three more simple snares are also in place on the approach from the Cornucopia direction, which should leave their victims entangled in thorns, though I haven't yet been able to replicate a decent swinging arm like I used in my demonstration to the Gamemakers.

Unfortunately it's thirsty work, and by sundown I am exhausted, hungry and very thirsty, though determined to make the water last at least until midday tomorrow. I take one last armful of creepers up the tower with me to strip during the evening, opening the packet of dried beef as the anthem plays overhead. No deaths today. Not even an echoing cry or howl from the hedges nearby. I guess I got lucky and chose the quiet corner to make my base, though I doubt it will stay that way for long. If all the action is happening in the other parts of the Arena then my safe little corner will be the first targeted by the Gamemakers, and I will have to start afresh.

Still, they will probably give me a few days, and if I make a show of ranging back along some of the paths and setting up more traps out there they might let me be.

I sleep much better this night than the last, waking just the once when a muffled cry echoes from far over the west, helped along by the breeze. I wait for the cannon, but it doesn't sound so whoever it was must have got away. Maybe in my direction.

Surprisingly I do sleep again, safe in the knowledge that my noise-traps should give me warning if anyone does approach, because I wake again to the blinding sunlight of another scorching day. I never thought I would wish for the smog layer that covers our district, but after feeling the pink, peeling skin on my nose and arms from yesterday's efforts I realise I could do with a break from the constant sunshine.

My stomach growls as I dump the stripped creepers down to the ground, and I give in and open the dried fruit pack. I know I really should be conserving food, but the counter-argument that I need to stay in moderately good shape wins out. After all, there's no point conserving food if I am too weak to escape the Career pack when they come calling. It won't do me any good if I'm dead, and there are always berries in the surrounding hedges, though none convenient to access.

I spend the rest of the morning fixing the snare traps on the other approach, the one that leads to the water-clearing which had at least one other exit. Here I find a suitably springy branch near ground level to attach some spikes to, so that anyone who gets caught will hopefully not be chasing much further.

I also use the time to examine some of the paths I neglected the day before yesterday, finding several that loop back on themselves, and one which joins up to my previous route to the water. The last leads away from the water clearing to the north, and quickly becomes a series of narrow turn-backs. Now that I have this area mapped I can lose my pursuers between the double-backs and my snares, leaving a suitable escape route for myself.

While I wait for the water to purify again, I spy some familiar green strands near the rocky outcropping that the furred creature was drinking from yesterday. Cress, the trainer called it, and a good few handfuls to feast on tonight. I have about half of it bundled with some twine when the growling starts behind me. Turning slowly I see the furred creature from yesterday, fangs bared as he snarls.

Heart suddenly beating too fast, I raise the sharp rock to throw at him, when another furred head appears from the bushes. Then another and another. Of course it was all too easy, thinking I was safe in the Arena.

_Stupid Wiress, you're not supposed to be safe._

They all attack at once, and my throw misses the lead one, though it bounces off the paw of one of the others. Wishing I had the metal bar, or had thought to cut a wooden stick for myself, I fend off the next attack with my satchel until the sharp claws tear a wide furrow through the material. A sharp pain behind me makes me cry out, and I look down to see blood dripping from my leg. Kicking out, I am rewarded with a squealing grunt and the sound of something heavy splashing into the water. Then the other three attack again, nipping my ankle and clawing my thigh through the soft clothing.

Scrambling in the torn bag, I stab myself twice before I get a hold on several of the three-inch thorns, my only other weapons. Slinging the bag up on one shoulder I lash out at the closest of the creatures, who darts backwards and slices open my hand with its own claws. Suddenly there is a weight on my shoulders, and a sharp pain on one ear, and I slam my fist backwards, burying the thorn spikes into the writhing flesh. It falls off with a thud, and I take the chance to back away, keeping my handful of spikes between me and the creatures' prowling pursuit.

Almost to the hedge I remember the water bottle, and hurry back to grab it, earning myself another stinging bite to the leg. I run as soon as I reach the grassy path between hedges, and by the third turn I realise they aren't chasing me.

Unfortunately I lost the sharp rock I was using for a knife, as well as the cress that was going to be dinner. Examining the now torn satchel, I realise that half-eaten packet of beef strips is also missing, and I am tempted to go back and look for it until the distant cannon fires.

Reminded that going back could mean my death, and that the creatures might have eaten it anyway I hurry back to the relative safety of my tower, so lost in thought that I nearly set off one of my own trip-lines. Who was the latest victim of the Games? And was it a tribute who killed them or some deadly creature? The bites and scratches are stinging from my salty sweat as I drag myself back up into the shaded tower, and I use one of my other rocks to cut strips from the now ruined satchel to bind them.

"Just a few cuts," I say out loud in case my family is watching. Just some cuts and bites because I was foolish enough to forget where I am, and why I am here.

Luckily I was aware enough to grab the water, a little of which I use to wash each bite and cut before bandaging. Now I have a different problem, and a lack of food will begin to tell very quickly in here. Also, I will have to go back for water at some point, and just hope that the furry little savages are gone. Maybe if I go at a different time of day?

Or I could find a different source of water. And of food. I don't like where this line of thought is taking me, but as I lie back on the wooden slats, trying to ignore the stinging wounds, I realise that maybe it's not as crazy as it sounds. After all, there were far too many supplies at the start for the Careers to carry with them, or to have used up already. And if they're all out hunting Junis, or the other survivors then they can't be guarding the Cornucopia very well. But surely they would leave behind one guard. Could I take on one guard? Let them see me, let them chase me around a blind corner into a prepared snare?

And then I could take whatever I needed and escape back to my safe corner for at least another day or two. It would be interesting enough that the Gamemakers would leave me alone for a bit after. Especially if I took some weapons with me. Make it look like I was planning something big. Surely it would be enough to make the audience wonder, and to keep me alive for a little longer.

"Damnit, Ezra. I need to bounce some crazy ideas off you."

My older brother has always been my go-to person when I had some mad new plan or thing I wanted to try to make. He is logical to a fault, and we would sit down together, me giving him each piece of my plans and him picking apart every common-sense fault that I had missed until we covered all the problems or decided that it would never work. What I wouldn't give to have him here now.

Clutching his ring that he gave me for a District token, I try to channel his voice. What would he say? It's crazy, but sometimes you can't play it safe to win? Don't be so foolish, it's what they want you to do?

"What do you reckon, Ezra?"

My stomach grumbles in reply and I take that as an answer. Back home they would be just about ready for dinner now. Tinned pasta in barely flavoured sauce or beans on little squares of bread sounds wonderful right now. It's Balia's thirteenth birthday in a few days. Maybe I'll be alive to see it. No, I can't die on my sister's birthday. That wouldn't be right. Then they can't enjoy the fruit and biscuits.

But if I don't get food, I'll have starved by then. I have to do it. It's my only chance.

-xXx-

The breeze picks up as the sun sets, blowing down from the northern parts of the Arena. Without it I would never have heard the distant screams, though it takes me a minute or two to realise that is what they are. On and on they go, desperate cries, though the words are completely incoherent at this distance. I would put them directly north of me, somewhere between here and the north-east tower, maybe half a mile in direct distance.

From my look over the Arena two days ago, I was able to determine the basic shape and size. Each of the six equal sides appeared to be two thirds of a mile long, meeting in the typical 120o corners of a standard hexagon. Dragging my mind through various formulae, I came up with a rough figure of 1.6 square miles. It doesn't sound like much until you realise just how many lengths of passageway can be crammed in, like the twisting, folded wires jammed into many appliances. That puts the towers a little under a mile apart, and each a little over half a mile to the Cornucopia. Without the wind blowing directly this way I wouldn't have heard a thing through the layers of shrubbery.

The cries stop abruptly after nearly twenty minutes, and a few seconds later the cannon-fire rings out. Before the echoes die, the anthem blares, and I smile at the thought of the Gamemakers scrambling to add the picture of the suddenly departed. Then I frown. Have I become so numb to the thought of children dying already? And such a long and terrible death too by the sound of it.

The first victim of the last twenty-four hours is Dalton from Five. I'm surprised he made it this long, and I'm guessing he was the death I heard on my return from water-gathering this afternoon, as he hovers there a good minute before Tobias from Twelve replaces him. Eleven of us left, less than half by the end of day four.

I've seen faster, and I've seen slower. Now that we are down below half the Gamemakers will start picking up the pace. They need to keep the audience interested, and maybe they have so far. After all, both Junis and Sparrow are still alive, with the entire Career pack after them. And they still have their underdogs in me, Aleksander and Anton.

Now is the time when I have to make myself interesting. If I don't carve out the path that I want now, then the Gamemakers will choose one for me. And I don't want to be the next wild card pushed into the paths of the killers. If I take the initiative and meet them on my terms then I won't have to worry about being chased towards them by some monster or natural disaster, leaving me unprepared and defenceless.

Tearing the remains of the satchel down the sides, I use it as a rug while I try to get some sleep. It's going to be a long day tomorrow.


	16. Chapter 16

It took me a day and a half to find my way from the Cornucopia to this tower, but now that I know which paths to take, it should only take me an hour or two of walking. I don't know which of the deaths so far were at the hands of the Career pack, but since they all occurred in the afternoon I decide to aim my attack for then. If I leave here around midday, I should have plenty of time to scout out whether there are any guards, and to set up a suitable trap for them for a mid-afternoon raid. If the Careers have been returning each night to their supplies, it still gives me a few hours leeway to make a clean escape.

I spend the morning touching up my snares, and setting a few further out on each of the paths. I find two more whippy branches that I can bind stakes to, one around knee-height, the other brushing the top of my head. Which would make it about throat-high on most of the others. I use the last of my twine and sharpened stakes to set a few more trip-lines just around blind turns, with the stakes buried point-up in the path just beyond.

They're too frail to probably kill anyone, but they should slow down any pursuit enough to let me escape. Finally as the sun reaches its noon height, I set out, the half-full water flask tied to my belt, a small bundle of thorns and my iodine bottle in one pocket, and the sturdiest branch I have found yet in my unwounded hand.

Almost the moment I leave the tower behind, the boom of a cannon nearly sends me scurrying back. It's not close, but if it was the Careers then they might return early from their hunt to re-stock. But if I don't go today, then I might be too weak to go tomorrow. One more day without food, and I would have to go back and get more water….

No, it has to be today. Right now, and take my chances. Maybe if they found one so early, they decided to keep going. Maybe they finally caught up to Junis, and the cannon was for one of them. It might even be the start of the alliance break-up, though I would rather they save that until after I have raided their camp. At least while they are hunting as a pack I only have to worry about them being in one or two places.

The walk is almost suspiciously pleasant, nothing but the grating sound of insects and the occasional bird cheep to be heard between the towering green walls. I wonder if the commentators have noticed yet what path I am taking, and that I haven't once seemed to lose my way. I remember listening to the commentators during past Games, analysing every little thing they could see, or thought they saw about the tributes. Often, between their fact-finders and long years of experience they were fairly accurate in their predictions of this boy has gone mad, or that one won't kill the girl over there because he likes her. Sometimes they got it incredibly wrong, and it always amused me a little to hear them going on and on about something that was clearly not true.

Like the boy from Five last year who they all thought had some clever plan he was setting up by the fiercest river, until he got swept away, still muttering incoherently until he drowned. Or the Career girl the year before who was clearly more interested in her female ally than her male ones as a love interest. The commentators had seemed so surprised, and it surprised me too that they were so blind to the simple and obvious signs. Not that it mattered in the end when the girl from Nine strangled them both while they slept.

Maybe they didn't realise yet that I knew my way about, but it should become obvious once I find my way back, probably by a different route without taking a single missed turning. Then they might be talking about me, maybe even interviewing my family and teachers to find out if I'm smart enough to plot out an entire maze in my head. Though they don't usually do that until they are down to eight.

Another cannon fires about an hour into my journey, still distant enough that I'm not in any immediate danger. Maybe someone was wounded in the fight earlier, and lasted another hour before dying. Or maybe the Career alliance has broken, and they are all fighting to go their own way. Whatever the case, I realise I need to hurry if I want to reach their supplies before they do, and pick up the pace.

I do slow down to a crawl as I reach the last turn before the centre of the maze, waiting in the shadows of the towering hedge. I peer out towards the golden horn seeking signs of a possible ambush, but nothing comes and I'm a little worried when the wide clearing is devoid of all life. The platforms are still there, twenty-four perfect circles of silver amongst the sea of green. Except for that one, half covered in a brown stain that I quickly look away from. The Careers must have gathered up everything that was scattered in the grass, in case it rained or just to make it easier to ration. All piled up inside the Cornucopia, neatly grouped into survival supplies, weapons and food.

Quickly, hardly daring to believe my luck I hurry across the grass, dump my stick, grab a medium-sized pack and stuff it with two bottles of water and as many rations as I can. Crackers, dried meat and fruit. Several wilted apples remaining in a plastic bag. There are even some hard bars of pressed grain and fruit, bound together with a sweet paste, which should fill me up nicely. Finally I add a few things I've been wanting for: Thick, sturdy rope and another roll of thin nylon cord, much stronger than the twine I had earlier. A coil of wire, a small crank-powered torch and a floppy-brimmed hat to keep the sun off my face.

There's not much left in the way of weapons that will suit me, but I take a wonky-bladed knife which would be useless for throwing, but will do just fine for cutting branches and cord. Under a small stack of spears I spot a smaller red bag, which opens out to hold bandages and some sort of wound-cleaning ointments. I squeeze this in the top of my pack and force the zippers shut, swinging it onto my shoulders as I make my retreat.

The pack is fairly full and will slow me down, but with all this I can outlast anyone and everyone here, and if worst comes to worse I can always throw it down a side-path and come back for it later. I'm about five steps from the hedge when I hear them, and make the stupid mistake of turning around to look instead of running straight away.

They appear two entrances along from mine, not the slightest bit blocked from vision by the golden horn, and my eyes lock with the tall, tanned boy from Four for a fleeting instant before I remember what I need to do.

Stumbling and gasping, praying I don't trip, I hurry back down the now-familiar pathway, the sounds of crashing, yelling pursuit close behind. There were only the four of them, the three boys and Francis, so the cannons must have been for the girls from One and Two. Which means either Junis is a lot better than any of us thought or they ran into some other sort of trouble on the way. The heavy-set boy from Two was being supported by Jasper as he walked, so that's at least one who won't be chasing fast. Then again he doesn't have to be if Damian and Francis run me down.

As soon as I reach a dead-end turn off, I shed the pack, taking a few precious seconds to throw it far down the narrow passage where it hopefully won't be seen. I still have the knife and my original water bottle tied to my belt and two of the grain bars in my pocket. As long as I survive, I'm ahead of where I was this morning.

Throwing myself forward once again, I risk a quick glance over my shoulder to see Damian appear onto this wider path about thirty yards behind me. I aim for a branching turn that becomes narrow at several points, looping back on itself to rejoin the main path after a hundred yards or so, but this turns out to be a bad idea as Jasper and Francis are only just disappearing into the entrance of the loop-around and hear my scuffling run as I exit.

Now I have two of them on my heels, and one of them has a bow. Zig-zagging as I run, I turn down another familiar path and dive through the returned curtain of stinging midges to the place I spent my first night in the Arena. I force myself to ignore the brown stains on the grass and branches as I throw myself through the widened crawl-space, hoping I can get clear before one of them catches my leg and hauls me back.

Thankful for my beanpole frame, as Lucia put it, I only take a few shallow scratches from the thorns, and make it clear to the other side before my pursuers catch up. Pausing to catch my breath, as I doubt any of the Careers could fit through the hole without suffering nasty lacerations, I gulp a quick mouthful of water and wait for my head to stop spinning.

On the other side of the hedge I can hear three sets of footsteps slow to a halt, and a fourth shambling set join them.

"Where did she go?"

"Through there. Can't you see the bloodstains? She must've been torn to pieces."

"Moron, look how dry they are. There's no way that's from her."

I recognise the last as Francis, who now that I think about it might just be thin enough to follow me through. This thought occurs to her about the same time, and I hear her say, "Hold this. I'll go after her through here while you three double back and try and cut her off that way."

And I'm off again, shakier than before and not fully recovered. These four will ultimately win if it comes down to endurance, so I have to lead them down into my own little arena.

This path doesn't rejoin the main thoroughfare, but takes a sharp left just beforehand, leading to a three-pronged fork. I take the right-most one, the most likely to lead back to the main path, and therefore the least likely for me to take, and before long the sounds of footsteps recede to nothing.

Slowing again, I cross several junctions and find myself passing a familiar run of flowers and berries, high above my head. Now that I know where I am, I turn back from the dead end to the last junction and nearly collide with Damian, his face and body showing fresh scratches.

Luckily he falls over, while I keep my feet, and I avoid his grab, taking the left-turning this time, his heavy breathing right behind me. From the scratches, I guess he must have taken the crawl-through after all, and his longer stride and greater endurance will beat me long before the blood loss takes its toll unless I somehow shake him.

Turning the next bend, I feel a tug on my jacket hood, and scream as he drags me backward. Fumbling at my belt, I grab the knife from its sheath and slash backwards, slicing through the fabric and possibly cutting his hand. I don't stop to look this time, hurrying forwards and counting the turns until I see the one I want. As soon as I turn the corner I throw myself away to the right, rolling into the hedge so that Damian barrels straight past me. Right into the wall of wasp-nests, which object immediately to his intrusion.

Taking the opportunity I push past him and hurry along down the next pathway, along this turn and that until I reach a narrow line that runs parallel with the main path again, thin enough that even if they find it they might not try it for risk of getting cut up some more. Stopping for another drink, I let my cramping side slowly un-twinge, kneeling so I can stretch out my aching legs. My breath is coming raggedly, and my throat burns where the jacket-front was pulled tight by Damian. The hood is now just a ragged scrap, though the few flecks of blood suggest I did catch his hand too.

They will probably keep hunting me now that they know vaguely where I am, but I need to stop and catch my breath and this seems as good a place as any. Eventually I stop feeling like I'm going to be ill, and my heart-rate drops back to only a little above normal. I sit up, waiting for the head-spin to recede as I continue massaging my burning calf-muscle.

To my delight I hear their voices on the other side of the hedge. I know for a fact that the wider path only joins this one at the intersection we passed, and there is a series of double-backs on their side that will slow them. As long as they stay there they won't find me here.

"Nothing for two days, then BAM!" Jasper's voice is slightly muffled by the few feet of branches and brambles that separate us.

"Tell me about it," Halifax replies with a grunt, and I hear a thud that must be him sitting down.

"What's the matter District Two, gone soft?"

There is a taunting note in Jasper's voice, and the broad-shouldered boy from Two snarls his reply, though it ends in a grunt of pain and One's laughter.

"Shut up Princess. I didn't see you doing anything about that little rat from Ten when he knifed me. Or his friend, when he ran Danni through. In fact you weren't much help with those spiders and that bitch from Eleven either. Running away screaming and leaving Lucinda for dead?"

I hear his spit hit the ground and the chime of metal on metal, a blade being drawn, when the other two arrive.

"Well, what happened?"

"Little eel got away," Francis replies sourly, and I hear another soft thud of someone else sitting, followed by more of One's scornful laughter.

"And you Fisherboy? Looks like she put up a fight."

"Led me into a wasp-nest," Damian replies slurringly, and I guess his face must be swollen from the stings. "Yeah, well I didn't see you chasing her," he adds defensively when the other boy keeps laughing.

"If I'd been chasing her she wouldn't have got away."

"Well she's down here somewhere, and we finally got Eleven, so she might as well be next."

The boys grunt agreement to Francis' words, but they make me wonder. Clearly both their allies are down, and so apparently is Junis, but there were only two cannons. Unless two of them fired at the same time, though the chances of that are astronomically high.

Almost as if my thought summoned it, a loud boom rings out from the same northern direction as the two earlier today.

"Huh, I wonder who that was."

"Hopefully that rat from Ten."

"Hopefully not. I want to do him slowly for sticking my leg. And it was Six I hit, while you three were busy hiding. If either of them was going down, it'd be him."

"I wasn't hiding," Jasper's indignant words are cut off by a girl's snigger, and I hear the metallic chink of his weapons again.

"Oh put that down, Princess. You're not going to spear any of us today."

"Yeah, well I might spear you with something else first."

"I'd tear your balls off. Now, should we stop here or do you want to go back for supplies?"

They agree to stay there for the night, supplying themselves from their packs, and from the silver parachutes that float down from the sky to their side of the hedge. I decide to do the same. I might gain something useful from their conversation, and I want to know which way they're headed before I move off. I eat the grain bars as quietly as possible, debating whether or not to go back for my own pack and risk losing them, or alerting them to my presence.

The sun sets as I listen to them eating and patching themselves up with the medical supplies they were sent. As my collection of scratches and bruises starts to hurt again I find myself wishing more than ever I had gone back for my purloined supplies while there was still enough light. But it's too risky now, so I grit my teeth and try to ignore the stinging cuts and scrapes that are beginning to coat my body.

The banter back and forth between Francis and Jasper gets nastier as the time goes on, until big Halifax threatens to silence them with his sword. Even then they continue to mutter, or at least Francis does as she leans back against the greenery, so close and yet so far. If I had a spear I realise I could probably kill her. The thought leaves my hands trembling and stomach swirling uncomfortably. Could I really stab someone in the back without warning? Even if they did try to kill me earlier today.

Maybe I could do it to Jasper, who has stopped bickering and launched into a gory rendition of how he killed the girl from Ten though it is apparent the others were present for the event.

"She was from Nine," Francis corrects absently as the anthem begins to play, and we all look up to see the faces of the newly dead. Danniellis is first, followed by Lucinda. Two Careers down in one day. The last image is Junis, her wide tawny eyes determined in her picture. The sky darkens and I hear the bickering start up again.

"Yeah, well I guess she wasn't dead when you ran away and left her."

"I didn't see you going back to help her either."

"Look, we all saw her get bitten, and she wasn't moving. I sure wasn't going to fight off three enormous spiders to save her corpse."

"That's because you ran screaming at the first sign of a hairy leg, and kept on running. Right into that trip-wire and got Danni killed. I'd stop boasting if I were you Princess."

Trip wire? I guess I'm not the only one who saw potential in these narrow twists and turns for traps. From the sound of things, Anton and Aleksander have teamed up, though maybe not for long if one is badly wounded.

With three more down, that brings us to the final eight. I'm not sure when the last time someone from my district made it this far was. Certainly no-one since I became eligible. No wonder Cupros tries to drink himself insensible and Beetee shies away from the tributes. And if I survive that will be me, year after year.

_No, stop it. Death is not a better option. _

The media storm will be descending on my family now, trying to get a few interviews in before the Careers resume their hunt. I just hope they don't drive Malcy into one of his tantrums, or set Pella off about some fault or another of mine. I have no doubt that Balia will win over the audience if she gets over her shyness in public.

Hopefully they do talk to my teachers. I have no doubt that they will be happy to tell the nation how smart I am, as a District Three victory would mean funding for various projects and tech institutes. And I think most of them like me enough to try and help me out. The more interesting I seem to the audience the better for my own survival. After all, it's all just a show to them, and at this stage teachers extolling academic and mechanical inventiveness might stand out against the others' claims of physical strength and fighting expertise.

What I wouldn't give to be back home right now. Back to the workshops and factories that I had always dismissed as ugly and utilitarian, but would be so comfortingly safe compared to the alien trees and grass and animals. Back to my family, to our tiny apartment, watching the oft-repaired television while working on assignments, or listening to Balia teaching Malcy to sing. Her beautiful voice rising above his timid attempts, though when he sings back to her he forgets the rest of us are there and loses most of his shyness.

I can almost hear them now, the simple children's rhymes ringing out above Pella's grouchy complaints and Ezra's laughter. Mother joining in, taking one of the few chances she has to interact with the son that barely acknowledges her presence. What was it they were singing the night before I left? Something about blackbirds in a pie. Which actually sounds quite appetising right now.

It takes me several seconds to realise that the soft humming is not just in my head. I clap a hand over my mouth for all the good it does, and mentally berate myself as the deep voice rumbles from the other side of the branches.

"Did you hear that?"


	17. Chapter 17

Acting instinctively I scramble back down the narrow passageway, sucking in a shuddering breath as the spear-tip breaks through the greenery to dig into the ground. Right where I was not three seconds ago. A second spear breaks through near head-height three feet away and I drag myself further along, hoping that the scraping of my shoes on the grass isn't audible through the hedge. Then again, I'm not sure how they can't hear my heart pounding; it's as loud as a spanner dropped from a high walkway, bouncing down the metal steps to the factory floor.

"She must have been listening all along!"

"Quick, let's go around there must be some-"

"Why bother, we can break through and-"

"Where's your bow? Put a few arrows through there and flush her out."

They're speaking loudly enough that the three feet of greenery barely muffles them. A distant part of my brain tells me to run, that they're trying to kill me! But I can't move; my aching legs won't do what my brain tells them. I just want to curl up in a ball and hide, but that won't do me any good.

_Get up Wiress. Get up "_and run. Now!"

This time the spear blade nearly takes out my eye, coming just short as I fling myself backwards with a yelp at the sharp thorns digging into my back. Dropping flat to the ground, I hear the second spear whistle through the air above me, its longer shaft again carrying it to the space I just vacated.

"What's the matter District Three?"

"Come out and play, little eel."

"You can't hide forever."

Again the spear pokes through, the razor sharp blade catching the side of my leg as I jerk my foot clear. I choke down a cry of pain and roll back to my left, dodging again. How long can I keep this up before they hit me? But they'll hear me if I get up and run. Can I even run with my leg? Can I even stand?

I risk a quick glance along my scratched and bruised body, watching as the three-inch gash starts to ooze blood, black in the moonlight. I won't be able to run far, but I'm at least functional. Though I won't be for much longer if I keep lying here in range of their spears. Their spears!

The next time a shaft crashes through the greenery I reach up and grab in, heaving with all my limited strength, and hoping that the surprise will overcome them. It doesn't quite work as planned. The second spear nearly nails me now that they know where I am, and I mustn't have tugged this one from the wielder's grasp as it suddenly jerks back, dragging me to my feet.

Now that I am up I don't hesitate, but turn on my heel and hurry back down this narrow passage, wincing with every step but knowing that if I don't hurry they might find the intersection before I get clear.

"She's running!" I hear Francis's voice, exuberant and eager. Eager for my blood, my pain, my suffering.

The night is well advanced now, and the flickering moonlit shadows make it hard to see the path as I stagger along. After twenty yards I'm limping. After fifty it's all I can do not to cry out with every step. I reach the intersection and take the right-hand turning, hobbling and gasping and hoping that the pain doesn't cloud my mind enough to cause a wrong turning.

Another hundred yards and I slip on the grass, instinctively reaching for my leg which is now dribbling dark liquid at a more rapid pace. As the shadows shift I can see more dark patches on the path behind me, a clear enough trail even in the darkness. Cursing under my breath I yank the knife from my belt and slice a strip from my shirt, tying a handful of leaves over the cut. My fingers are shaking so much I can barely make the simple knot, and in the distance I can hear my pursuers calling to one another.

"Hurry, hurry," I mutter as I tug it tight, praying it will hold long enough for me to lose them.

Staggering to my feet again I force myself onwards, checking periodically that I'm not leaving an obvious trail. After another hundred yards my ankle gives way and I crash into the hedge, moaning in pain. I can't stop here, they're too close. But I can't go any further. I start crawling, but the drag of the grass pulls my makeshift bandage loose and the blood starts flowing again.

I'm dead then. The Careers can't be that far behind, even if they try the other turning first. It dead-ends fairly quickly and then they will try this one, where I can't move. Dragging myself semi-upright so that my back is against the hedge I draw the knife again, settling it in my grip. My only hope now is that I can pose enough of a threat that they have to kill me quickly. I don't want to be left in the hands of Jasper, whose cruelty is clear for all to see. Or Damian, who probably isn't too happy about the wasp nest. But if I launch myself at Halifax, one last push, my knife towards his throat he'll instinctively lash out and end me. Maybe.

I'm so tensed that when the weight suddenly drops on my head I lash out swinging and hacking until I recognise the sound of cloth tearing. Tearing the parachute free of my head, I feel a small, smooth object smack against my arm. A syringe of clear liquid and a smooth cloth pad with adhesive tabs at the edges.

I can only assume it's a painkiller of some sort as I rip off the plastic cap and jam it into my leg beside the wound. The effect is immediate and soothing, and I quickly rip off the plastic backing and apply the proper bandage, shoving the used tabs into my pocket.

In the distance I can hear the Careers shouting and drag myself once again to my feet. This time my leg holds and I start my hobbling run again, angling straight for the region strewn with my traps. No point trying to lose them now that they are so close. My only chance is to get behind a few of my snares and trip-lines, let the traps slow them enough for me to make my escape. At least I have a chance thanks to a sponsor.

As I turn into the more familiar realm of paths that surround my tower I hear the approaching footsteps and turn for a quick look. The sight of Francis bearing down on me spurs me on to a faster speed than I knew I was capable of, and despite the poor lighting I jump the nearly invisible trip line that my mental map tells me is there, crying out as I land on my injured foot. The painkiller has dulled it to a low throb, but the sudden weight of my landing is enough to jolt it again.

Then another scream cuts the night, and I turn to see Francis lying on the ground, her feet entangled, trying to draw the wooden stake from her leg. Our eyes meet for a second, hers full of pain and anger as she grits her teeth and pulls free the wooden shaft from her calf, and I hurry on.

Ten more yards and I dodge the snare I can't see, then jump the second trip line as I hear her calling out to her allies. The footsteps are too close, so I force myself on, ducking and dodging, thankful now for the darkness that will prevent them from seeing my traps until it's too late. Then I remember the wind-up torch I found in the Cornucopia and curse again. Sure enough, there are flashes of light above the looming walls, and a loud argument that cuts off with a sudden scream.

Pausing, suddenly nauseous at the thought my contraptions might have killed someone, I wait for the cannon. Instead I get more screams and swearing, the pained male voice suggesting either Jasper or Damian. Swish, thud, crack. Another yell, Francis again, louder than before.

One of the boys must have been caught in the snare then, dragged into the thorns while Francis found my second trip-line. The one attached to a whippy branch at leg-height.

_She won't be chasing me again tonight_, I think, then stop, horrified at how little their suffering bothers me. Had I taken the right-fork earlier, the prepared stake-lashed branch would have struck her head not her leg. What would I be thinking then, _one more down six to go_?

_But they were trying to kill you_, the cold, logical part of my brain replies. _It's no more than they deserve, and they have to die some time if you want to live. At least you don't want them to suffer_.

I shudder and keep walking.

-xXx-

My leg gives way again as I reach the tower clearing, and I abandon any thoughts of climbing to the apparent safety of the platform for the remainder of the night. I need to rest and recover, but I don't know how close the Careers are behind me. If they decided to keep chasing me.

In compromise I crawl to the opposite passage and curl up just beyond the first trip-line in that direction. There are three noise traps on the most direct path between where I left them and here, more if they try other turnings. That should be enough warning to wake me, though I dread to think how bad my leg will be once the painkiller wears off.

The next thing I know there is sun in the sky, and the distant sound of clattering wood that marks my less lethal trip-lines. Surging to my feet I nearly scream as my leg collapses under me, and when I look the ankle is swollen and throbbing, though the bandage shows no signs of blood seeping through. Using the hedge to steady myself I try again, and find that it will support my weight enough to walk.

Right now any movement is better than none, so I start my hobble, drinking the last of my water as I go. I have to get enough distance between me and the Careers to lose them, then somehow double back to the pack of supplies I dumped if possible. After that I need to build up a new safe area and try and outlast the others.

The Career alliance won't hold much longer, not if the bickering continues the way it was yesterday, and I'm not sure how it will fall out. I'd guess that Francis and Damian would team up, but I doubt they could beat Halifax and Jasper if it ended up two on two. On the other hand, Halifax didn't seem all that keen on Jasper's snide comments and arrogance. Maybe they'll just kill the boy from One and keep hunting as a trio. Though Jasper did score a 10 in training, one higher than the muscular boy from Two.

However it falls, I need to be far away, somewhere I can rest until the Gamemakers force the last of us together. Another few days at least, which means I will need the supplies I stashed. If they are still there. I'll have to assume they are for now; there are enough problems in my immediate future without worrying about that.

The distance to the corner pool seems to have multiplied exponentially, and it's a good two hours before I hear the trickle of water. Knowing that my pursuers can't be far behind me, I scramble to the first point of rapid flowing water and fill the bottle, keeping a wary eye for the furred creatures that savaged me last time.

I weigh up my options as I return to shore, stowing the bottle back on my belt with shaking fingers. There are three paths leading directly from the clearing, though two of these join up in fairly short order. If I take the south-west path, I may risk meeting my pursuers should they split apart at the fork that joins it to the central path. If I go north, then I might be able to get clear if they don't split apart following me here. But if they do, then they'll know which way I've gone, and since I haven't explored that part of the maze I will potentially struggle to lose them.

North or south-west? Either way I have to act fast, or risk being cornered in this clearing. They were in the northern part before chasing me down here. Maybe they won't want to cover ground they've already been over. And my pack full of supplies is that way. I'll just have to hope they stayed together.

Hurrying now, I tear another scrap from my shirt and stick it on a twig near the south-west exit, scuffing up the ground nearby. Then I scramble back through to the shallows, letting the water soak over my shoes and swollen ankle, the cold numbing the aching throb somewhat as I slosh back towards the northward path. Treading as lightly as I can, I hurry to the safety of the hedges not a moment too soon, as the sound of footsteps heralds the arrival of the Careers. Creeping as best I can away from the clearing, I hear the clatter of rocks and Jasper's whining voice.

"Which way now?"

Holding my breath, I lean as far as I can into the branches, ignoring the stabs and hoping my green clothing will help me blend in enough after twenty yards, should they think to look. Sure enough I hear the call, and Damian's still slightly slurred reply that he can't see any signs this way, and I let the breath out as they hurry away in the other direction.

I have to push myself now, to go as far as I can in case something tips them off and they come back this way after all. Once I get a few hours head start, I can start thinking about finding a safe place to rest.

My body has other ideas, however, and the sun shows it's not even midday when my strength runs out. The lingering remnants of the painkiller have flushed their way through my body and the dull throbbing ache has increased again to jolting stabs every time I put weight on my right foot.

When I slump against a relatively thorn-free part of the hedge and peel off the now crusted and streaked bandage the blood starts oozing again, bright red like the berries overhead. I reach up and pick the nearest one, and it's half-way to my mouth before I think to check the leaves. Five points. Given how much my leg is burning it's almost tempting.

_No. It's not._

I throw it away, watch it bounce and roll along the grass and under the hedge. I'm not that desperate, not yet. I tell myself that I'll take a quick break here, maybe ten minutes then move on, but again my body intervenes and I jerk from my doze to see late afternoon sunlight overhead and the narrow path already in shadow.

My mouth is dry and my head and leg are throbbing rhythmically, but at least I'm alive. The cut on my leg has stopped bleeding again, and when I clean away the blood it's actually smaller than I thought. If I hadn't spent hours walking and running on it, it would probably be fine in a day or two. I don't have a day or two. What I do have, when I drag myself another forty yards down the path looking for somewhere more sheltered to spend the night, is a change in the hedge thorns. The intertwining brambles only last a few yards before they return to the longer, sharper thorns, but they are dotted with dark purple berries that I distinctly remember from training. Blackberries, their juicy tartness a wonderful change to the dried, processed food of the last few days.

I strip the bush in the last few hours before sunset, eating one handful, piling the next on the grass beside me until the bush is bare. Then I fall to the now familiar task of stripping thorns from the creeper, looping the strands together to form a loose mesh which I line with leaves to carry my berries.

Not too much further there's a narrow side-path, and once I've strung a trip-line at the entrance, and another twenty yards down, I feel relatively comfortable to curl up for the night between the towering hedges. The anthem plays, but there are no faces tonight. No-one dead today, though it could easily have been me up there. One missed step with my traps, the sponsor not coming through in time, dodging the wrong way from those spears. Any one of these things could have marked my end, but somehow I survived.

After my long nap earlier, I struggle to sleep, which is why I hear the distant, muffled cannons that otherwise might not have wakened me. Boom, boom, two in a row, so far away they must be nearly at the other side of the arena. The Careers finally splitting? Or maybe they caught up to Anton and Aleksander.

Six of us left now, after six days. Has it only been six days? Not even a week, though it feels like an eternity. I've always walked between these towering green walls, always hungry, always thirsty. I don't really notice the ever-increasing scratches and scabs from the thorns any more, and I bet the others don't either. The arena is my home now, my traps my only friends. Just six days….

It also means tomorrow is Balia's birthday, and I'm still alive to see it, or I will be once the moon passes overhead. Thirteen, a proper young lady now. I try to keep the happy thought in my head as I drift off to sleep, but that cold part of my brain whispers _two more down, five to go_.

I hate how easy it is to agree.


	18. Chapter 18

Sunlight, too much sunlight. Why is it so bright? I just want to sleep a few more minutes. I reach for my pillow to block out the light and gain a new puncture in my hand in return. At least the sudden prick wakes me up and reminds me where I am.

The birds are singing overhead, once again there's not a single cloud in the sky, and as always the world is green, green, green. Breakfast is another handful of blackberries, though my body quickly reminds me that it needs more than a fist-full of fruit soon. The sudden change to my diet this last week, as well as the lack of food is clearly not appreciated by my insides, but there's not a whole lot I can do. I'll need at least another day of rest before I have the strength to move on in search for my stashed supplies.

The swelling around my ankle is less today, though it still aches when I move it and twinges sharply when I try to put weight on it. Again, there is little I can do. The first-aid trainer only really talked about cleaning and bandaging wounds, and about sunburn and insect bites and stings. Nothing useful there. Tereza, our medical expert back home, though she never had any formal training I heard of, would probably know what to do to make it better. But she's no more here than my family.

Balia. It's something to distract myself, and I know it will make her happy, so I draw a circle on the grass with one of my thorns, then poke in thirteen more, standing upright like candles on the cakes only factory overseers could afford. Underneath I write Happy Birthday Balia in big, wide letters so that the camera will have no trouble picking it up.

Twenty minutes later a silver parachute drifts down, bearing a single tiny bread square. It lasts only one bite, but it's from home and I'm betting that it's not the result of any Capitol sponsorship. I don't have to force a smile as I look at the sky and say "Thank you."

Thank you District Three for this. I won't let you down now. Not when I am so close. And I'll repay it twelve times over next year. But first I must rest and plan. Stripping creepers and gathering branches, simple tasks that don't require me to stand. Straight lengths of wood, a foot long that I hack free from the hedge and attach to my trip-lines. A longer piece, slightly crooked but sturdy that I wrestle free and trim the off-shoots from for a walking stick.

I sing as I work, sing because it reminds me of home and because my opponents are so far away that they won't hear me. Sing because it keeps away those cold thoughts even when I'm preparing my weapons, because it reminds me of what I'm fighting for. And right now Balia, mother and even little Malcy might be singing along.

I don't really know that many songs, and a good number that I do are little more than children's rhymes my mother and her mother taught us to keep us occupied when we were young.

"Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle the cow jumped over the moon."

"See the little dog, see the dog run. Little dog little dog, home to District One."

"Around and round the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel."

Nonsense rhymes, but comforting and familiar.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. That saved a wretch like me."

Grandma's old favourite, I sing it well enough, though not as well as my sister.

"I once was lost, but now I am found. Was blind but now I see."

Well lost is fairly accurate right now, and once I'm well enough recovered I'll find my way again. For some reason I still can't remember the second verse, though the third seems oddly appropriate.

"Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come."

Well, they've been more my snares and toils that caused others dangers, though I've had my share as well. I face the sky as I finish the verse, holding up the ring around my neck as I sing straight to my family.

"Tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home."

Home. How I long for the cool concrete walls, the whir of machinery, the clatter of the workshop. A pen or a screwdriver in my hand instead of this knife, paper or my current project spread in front of me instead of creepers and stakes. These are how I will get there. Whatever it takes, I can do it. Somehow.

I feel like I should be crying, but I'm not. Not enough water for my body to waste it maybe. Or maybe I'm becoming that cold voice in my head, a monster of the Games. But I haven't killed yet, and maybe I won't have to. Maybe I can come out of this relatively unbloodied. I've already had Felton's blood on my hands, and some of Francis's on my traps. I don't much care for it.

I stop singing and keep working as the sun passes overhead.

-xXx-

I eat the last of my blackberries as day seven in the Arena ends. Lying back on the soft grass, my foot resting on a thicker branch six inches from the ground I wait for the sun to set and tell myself not to drink the last of the water.

My iodine bottle must have come unscrewed while I ran, leaving just a few drops that I used for this fill, so I will need to track down my supply pack tomorrow for water as well as food. I bundle up my creepers, thorns and stakes in the mesh, easy to carry slung over my shoulder despite my leg. The walking stick will help with that as well, and I feel more comfortable with it than the knife if I need to defend myself. Though I'm fairly sure the other tributes are far enough away that I won't run in to them. Then I remember the Careers talking about giant spider muttations, and the screams that echoed from this area immediately prior to Tobias's death and shudder.

Running into the four Careers or little Sparrow, assuming the two deaths last night were who I thought, would be better than being eaten alive by some monster. I'm fairly confident about my guess, and when the anthem plays it's Aleksander and Anton's faces in the sky. Big, quiet Aleksander who nodded to his younger brother during the reaping. Little, cheerful Anton, joking with Caesar about getting to stay up past his bed-time. They didn't deserve to die, but I'm glad I don't have to kill them.

They almost definitely re-encountered the Career pack, who will surely reach breaking point soon. I wouldn't be surprised to wake tomorrow morning to the boom of cannons. And what about little Sparrow? Is he hiding like me? He must have been up to something or the Gamemakers would have chased him into the action by now. Maybe that's what they're doing right now. It would be a good way to force the Careers to split, especially if he gets away to strike again later.

I'm too tired to think any more, though I've been sitting nearly all day. The hunger, the thirst, the constant lingering fear of attack takes its toll though. I don't like being so tired that my brain isn't working, but once I find my food and other supplies tomorrow it will be better. It will. It has to. It….

Daylight again. I force myself to stand and start moving before something else forces me, aiming west, always west back towards the centre of the maze. Eventually I'll reach that wider path, and once I do it won't be far to where I dumped the pack. It will also put me back closer to the action, hopefully close enough that the Gamemakers won't try to push me.

It's not long before I hear the cannon fire; I was expecting it after all. Just the one, so either they caught Sparrow or the pack has split. I wait for another one, but it doesn't come. If it's the Careers, then it's probably Jasper. The other three didn't seem to like him much, and I'm sure they all recognised how much of a threat he is. Then again District Four might have split off together, leaving One and Two to fight. Halifax was wounded, and for all his menacing size he did score lower. No, I can hope it's Jasper, but I can't be sure until tonight. Once again I can't help but think _one more down_. One less person whose blood might end up staining my hands, though I suspect if I come out of this alive I will feel responsible for them all.

Hobbling along with the aid of my stick, I make better time than I expected. I guess I must be nearing the centre regions of the maze when I hear a rustling behind me. It's too small to be another tribute, or even a moderately sized animal. Birds, possibly. They've been harmless enough so far, but that doesn't necessarily mean they will stay that way. I pick up the pace, glancing behind more than ahead, which is why I don't notice the change in the hedge at first. The mid-green core is still there, wreathed as always in the thorny creeper, but now there is a darker hue more prominent as well. And dotted amongst these darker leaves are small white flowers, no bigger than the size of my still-painted thumbnail. More and more of them with each step forwards, and getting lower and lower down the hedge so that they are now level with my eyes.

I don't remember them from training, which means they are neither edible nor deadly poison. But the trainer didn't cover in-between. As my brain processes this thought I notice how sweet the air around me is, sweet like the cinnamon cake we had for dessert one night in the training centre, and somehow I instinctively know they are dangerous.

I turn to run, but my leg gives way. My left leg this time. Then my right spasms uncontrollably and I topple face-first into a cluster of white. Coughing and spitting, I accidentally gasp a full breath of the too-sweet perfume and end up on the ground, my arm now twitching outside of my control. I can still feel pain though, I discover when my knee collides with a gnarly branch.

Desperately I try to crawl away to safety, but my other arm gives out too. I manage to roll onto my back before the rest of my muscles seize and suddenly I am left helpless, defenceless. Completely paralyzed.

My mind is still working though, and I realise this has to be an effect from inhaling the scent of the flowers. There are no flowers this low, so eventually it should work its way out of my body and I'll be able to escape. As long as nothing finds me while I lie here.

I try to clamp down on the panic that comes with immobilization as the time passes. After five minutes I'm sweating; after twenty I start hyperventilating, though I calm slightly when I realise I can still breathe properly. An hour passes, then another. I feel my already peeling skin burn as the sun passes overhead, but it won't kill me. Not straight away.

The thought of staying like this for days send my mind reeling through another bout of panic, but surely they won't do that. It would be so boring at this stage of the game. Unless there is no cure. Maybe I'm stuck like this until someone or something finds me and finishes me off. I already know the paralysis doesn't prevent pain, and I really really don't want to be eaten alive.

I must pass out for a time, my body calming my run-away thoughts the only way it can, because the next thing I know the sky is dark and there are tiny points of light starting to flicker far above. Then I notice the fiery pain behind my right knee, sudden and sharp, like touching hot metal. Another burn from my lower back. Then my stomach, my scratched ear, my lip.

I notice the tickle across my cheek just prior to the next burn, the small black segmented body that trundles up the side of my nose and past my eye, maybe an inch in length, though I feel its bite near my eyebrow.

It seems that whatever has paralysed my body hasn't stopped my vocal cords from working either, and when the fire suddenly intensifies and sweeps up my other leg I scream loud and long. The pain is so much worse because I can't move. Can't crawl away, can't swat the black insects that are all over me, can't even writhe.

How long will it take for them to kill me? Surely this isn't what the audience wants. Belatedly I remember the long-lasting screams I heard from this area a few days ago that marked Tobias's end. Could this be what killed him? If so, then surely the watching Capitol doesn't want to see the same death repeated. And I don't want to die.

More fire now near my left elbow, where the swarm seems to be gathering. I can't focus my thoughts through the pain, but there has to be something I can do, some way out. I don't want the last memory my family has of me to be a screaming mess of writhing black. I don't want to be remembered in my district as the girl who escaped a pack of Careers only to be beaten by ants.

Beetee. Can't he do something? He's had all day to realise I can't move and if this is what killed Tobias then he surely knew it was coming. Unless he can't do anything to help. Maybe the cure is too expensive, or maybe it doesn't even exist. And if it does, I can't move anyway. How would I administer it?

Just as I've resigned myself to a horrible end a silvery shadow cuts across the stars above my head. A parachute, drifting, drifting so slowly to fall on my face. The small bottle strikes me on the cheek with enough force to bruise, though I barely notice it compared to the fire in my limbs, and the soft material envelopes my head and upper body.

A final gift from my mentor, covering my eyes so I don't have to see the swarming insects that will end my life. But then why include the bottle? For the weight perhaps? Surely he could have used something else for that. Maybe he hoped I'd somehow overcome the paralysis by force of will. Maybe the bottle contains some sort of repellent and was supposed to break or tip on landing and chase away the ants.

I suck another agonised breath as the fire reaches my back and nearly choke on the foul cloying smell of the parachute over my face. What sort of material smells so awful? Is it soaked in some sort of poison to kill me faster?

Or is it soaked in something else?

Forcing down the nausea I suck in another deep breath of the rancid material, and another. The fingers on my right hand twitch. Two more breaths and I can clench my hand, nearly make a fist.

It's slow, so slow, but after another minute there is a bite on my neck and my head jerks in response. I can move! Screaming from elation as much as pain I fling my right arm across my body and feel the scurrying of insects as they flee. Using that arm to push myself over, I hear the satisfying crackle of carapaced bodies being crushed. On my front I can try crawling, though only my right arm and shoulder are functioning. After five yards the other arm begins freeing up and I painfully drag myself free of the ant swarm. They don't follow.

By the time my legs gain the first vestiges of movement I realise the parachute no longer smells and I drag it off my head. The little bottle is only half-full, and when I open it the same nauseating stench washes out over my hands. Fingers shaking, I pour some more over a small patch of cloth and hold it directly over my mouth and nose. The smell makes me gag, but the muscles in my legs unclench immediately.

My whole body still feels on fire from the bites, and when I force myself to look I see the exposed skin at my ankles and wrists is covered in lumps. Their poison may kill me yet, but for now I survive. I don't even try to stand. I know my legs won't hold me, and crawling will get me where I need to go eventually. It takes me several minutes to realise I am going the wrong way. Or the right way, depending on how you look at it.

Judging by the moon's position I'm heading towards the centre of the maze, into the unknown dangers of the rest of this path. But if I go back I have to face the flowers and ants again, and then find another way to the centre. Better to just keep going and hope that the dangers have passed.

After two hours of slow crawling and intermittent stops to vomit and lie shaking on the ground until some strength returns I reach the junction and nearly laugh. The wide path that this one meets at a T junction is well trampled and I immediately realise where I am. That very first day in the arena, that first hour fleeing the Cornucopia full of hope, I saw this path and decided it was dangerous. I was right.

That means my supply pack is only about a hundred yards and two turns away. Such a short distance only three days ago, it seems endless now. The sky is beginning to lighten by the time I reach the turning and I cry with joy when I find the pack still nestled in the hedge in one piece.

It takes several attempts to grip the zipper, and I force myself not to think about the possibility of permanent damage to my fine motor skills as I wrestle free a bottle of water, greedily drinking half of it before remembering I probably should conserve what I have. Something else rolls out as I tilt the pack back upright, something compact and soft. The first aid kit I crammed in the top.

It takes another wrestle in the near dark of pre-dawn to undo it, but there is a small spray-bottle that makes it all worth it. I've used it before, or something similar in the workshop after burning myself, but this is ten times better and I rub it into my red, cracked hands, neck and face, gasping at the sudden cool. It soothes the ant-bites too, and after I've coated myself twice the pain has dulled to a point where I might be able to sleep.

Praying that there's nothing here to eat me I curl up, using the soft pack as a pillow and let the exhaustion take me away.


	19. Chapter 19

The sound of heavy footfalls wakes me, and I muffle the pained squeak that comes from trying to sit upright with the sleeve of my jacket. Every part of me aches and itches, and the sudden movement brings nausea and sharp head-pains that mute when I see the flash of a figure run past the narrow gap in the hedge. Thankfully he doesn't look this way and I breathe a sigh of relief as the thudding footsteps fade into the distance. I only saw him for half a second, but there was no mistaking the height or the breadth of his shoulders. Whatever else happened yesterday, Halifax is still alive and fighting.

I can't know if I missed any cannons while unconscious, but I did miss the death recap last night, so even if there are still five of us I don't know which ones. Right now I don't care; the only thing that matters is that my skin still feels like it's on fire, a combination of sunburn and a multitude of ant-bites. After several attempts to stand I give up and crawl to what will be the shady side when the sun rises further and rub in more of the spray from the first aid kit.

There is food in the pack too, dried but nourishing, and I realise I haven't eaten more than a few handfuls of blackberries in the last 24 hours. My stakes and creepers must have fallen free at some stage during my crawl, as there is just the one loop of vine around my shoulder. Not that it matters when I remember I stuffed the pack with rope, cord and wire.

I need to find somewhere safer to hide out and recover than this short dead-end, especially now that there will be Careers on the prowl, but I don't have the strength to stand let alone build up another layer of protections. I'm trying to think of ways I could camouflage the entrance to this passage without standing up when a cannon wakes me from the half-doze I must have fallen into.

It's distant and to the south-west. Which means it's not Halifax. Therefore there are probably still three of us left, maybe four. It won't be long until the Gamemakers force us together for the grand finale. I will need to spend as much time as I can recovering if I'm to have a chance.

Lying prone with the pack as my pillow I can return to the routine task of cutting nearby branches and sharpening them. A thinner, flexible length of wood gives me an idea and I think back to the drawings from that far-gone time in the Training Centre of projectile weapons. It might also help calm the shaking in my fingers, or at least show me the limitations. The wire in my pack is flexible enough for a few shots and by the time the sun sets on day….nine? ten? I've lost count. How could I lose count of the days so easily?

Frowning I think back, trying to pin each event to a day, though the most recent ones seem a blur. It was definitely the fifth day that I made my doomed raid on the Cornucopia. Six, seven, eight, nine. Nine days. We get longer for some school assignments. No-one should be this changed after just nine days.

With a groan I sit upright to eat dinner: another few crackers and a beef strip. The food should last four days at this rate. I doubt we'll be here for more than four days. There are only a few of us left, and there is a lot of maze for us to hide in. They'll want to keep us more centrally located for the end. The audience doesn't like it much when the final few die to the Arena.

The last of the burn-spray goes on while I wait for the death recap, and I'm not looking forward to tomorrow without it. Perhaps if I knew more about plants I could make something from the surrounding greenery. Or I could make it worse. "Better to suffer moderately," I tell myself with a nod.

My voice creaks worse than a rusted joint. When was the last time I spoke? I don't want to count days and hours again. The headache is back, and even the rest of the water bottle doesn't settle it. I doubt I'll sleep well tonight, even with my new….where did I put it?

I reach around until I find the crossbow-like construction I spent the afternoon building. My test-fire reached the fifteen feet to the dead end of the path, and I have three more stakes carved smooth and straight and pointed. Though it will take time to re-loop the wire after each shot. Maybe I should make another one tomorrow. Or another two. One for each person left. Then I can lie here and wait for them to find me, one at a time. I won't have to get my hands bloody. I won't even have to get up.

The anthem plays, interrupting this line of thought, and to my surprise the most recent casualty is Francis from Four. I wonder who killed her, and how. She had her bow, and from training I know she was decent with both knife and spear. The damage from my traps would have hampered her mobility, but she was one of the favourites. She definitely has sponsors and if I can get medicine then so can she. Could she.

It makes me realise something else as I settle back down, crossbow clamped firmly in my lap; I'm the last girl standing. It's me versus two or three boys. Halifax is one of them, but who are the others? If Sparrow died the other day then it's Jasper and Damian. I wouldn't back myself against three Careers, but I think I could at least bring myself to kill them if they attacked me.

I'm not sure I could kill little Sparrow. But he's almost definitely dead. No matter how good he is at survival I just can't see an untrained thirteen-year-old taking out a Career, even if they were injured. Though he was good with ranged weapons….

I sleep poorly, waking from nightmares of being devoured by ants while the other tributes stand by laughing to spend minutes, hours, thinking up and tossing aside increasingly useless plans.

The sun rises on day possibly ten, and I am dragged out of the most recent nightmare, where my parents and siblings pin me down while Stuvek carves me up to find something tickling my foot. I lash out instinctively and the crossbow bolt misses my foot by half an inch, pinning the offending blade of grass.

It takes minutes, too many minutes to get my breathing under control, and I wait until my hands stop shaking before I attempt to reload it. The sunburned parts of my skin have started to blister today, and between them and the countless ant-welts I'm lumpy and aching all over.

The day passes in a similar manner, the constant level of pain offset by the sudden adrenaline kicks once or twice an hour when the rustling of birds or a change in the wind makes me leap for my crossbow. Twice I fire by accident and crawl after the bolt to retrieve it. The third time I don't bother and load one of my spares. I eat and drink, I nap, I wake violently and try not to harm myself with my own weapon. As the afternoon shadows lengthen I'm pretty sure I'm just imagining some of the sounds, but it doesn't stop me jerking into action every single time.

Nothing happens. The sun sets, the anthem plays, there are no faces in the sky. A boring day. The Capitol doesn't like boring days, especially so close to the end. They will have to do something soon.

Almost as if they read my mind, the nasal voice of the games announcer Narcissus Elkheart echoes out over the dying strains.

"Congratulations to the remaining tributes, you have fought hard and well. To reward such diligence in your competition we are inviting you to a feast to be held tomorrow morning at the Cornucopia, two hours after sunrise. It would be a pity to miss out."

In other words, they want us all to attend their grand finale and anyone who looks like they're thinking of refusing might find themselves pushed in that direction by something unpleasant. This is it. I have to focus now.

I begin my preparations now, eating the rest of the beef packet, half a pack of dried fruit and the last of the crackers. One bag of dried fruit and the last beef packet will be enough insurance should the Games go on after tomorrow, and I'll need as much strength as I can muster.

I leave one water bottle aside as well, and drink freely from the other. The cut on my head is all but sealed over, but I don't want blood in my eyes if it gets re-opened so I bandage it. Another bandage for my ankle, though it too is mostly sealed and the swelling isn't noticeable under the coating of lumpy ant bites.

I have a handful of stakes and thorns, and if I move out early enough I can rig a few snares near one of the entrances to the clearing so that if anyone chases me I have a way of escaping them. Or killing them. My hands no longer shake at the thought of ending someone's life. Probably good for my chances of living, but I'm not sure it's a worthy price to pay for my humanity.

Maybe I'll get lucky and the two or three remaining boys will finish each-other off. I wouldn't be the first person to win without a single kill to their name.

Sleep comes and goes in patches, and when I wake to see a blue-grey pre-dawn sky I decide to make a start. With the ropes and stakes bound over my shoulder, my scratch-built crossbow in one hand, wind up torch and walking stick in the other I start the short trek to the Cornucopia.

While my leg is vastly improved, the ant venom and the residual effects of the flowers has left me with no reserves, and I'm still limping slightly. Nicks and scratches and welts on every semi-exposed parts of my body. Not the worst injuries for a final four competitor, but since my opponents are probably all Careers…

It takes me nearly an hour to walk the distance that I ran in less than ten minutes on day one. The sun is still below the horizon though I wouldn't be surprised if the others were already up and prowling. Peering through the gloom of pre-dawn, crouched at the edge of the hedges I can't see any movement near the golden structure. I wait a minute, two. Nothing. Nothing. As I'm about to stand there is the softest of metallic rings followed by a low muttered curse and I feel my heart leap.

I back away slowly, glad that I'm facing almost parallel with the golden archway. I can't tell from the voice who it is but someone is already waiting inside the horn's mouth. As I back down the passage I have another thought and clap a hand across my mouth to stop myself swearing at my own stupidity. There are only six passages leading into the clearing, and there's nothing stopping any of the others from using the same one as me. Even worse, it's a risk I might just have to take.

Moving quietly, I rig a pair of trip lines, giving me a moderately safe zone to work in while I set the more complex snare. There's not much to work with since the hedges in this area are all small spindly branches without much overhang, but I get a simple rig set up that should catch around ankle height and swing a bunch of spikes into someone's face, provided they are at least 5'10". Which is anyone but me or Sparrow, if he's still alive.

Even better it works from both directions, so it doesn't matter if one of the others comes after me from behind. And even if it doesn't kill them, I still have my crossbow.

I crouch, ready for a few minutes before giving up and sitting against a springy patch of leaves. The sun rose while I was working so it will be at least another hour before the feast begins. Like the night before the Games started, I feel surprisingly unafraid. There is a very good chance I will die today, but there is also a decent chance that I will survive. A much better chance than anyone would have given me two weeks ago.

Who knows? In another week I might be at home with my family again. Happy. Safe. Ok, probably not happy, but right now I'll settle for alive. And functioning. My hands still tremble slightly even now, and while I've always found it easy to lose myself in daydreams, since coming to this world of green and pain it's been so much harder to wake.

Every time I close my eyes, I see them, my family, my friends, my teachers. The other tributes, the ones who have died, whose faces looked down from the sky. Sometimes they try to attack me, sometimes the mock me, sometimes they just watch in silence.

A gong chimes overhead, and I fail spectacularly at leaping to my feet. As I topple over sideways, I hear a loud crack, and for a moment I'm sure that I've broken bones. But no, the crack was breaking wood and the crossbow I spent half a day constructing is now just useless splinters. I feel the tears of frustration gathering in my eyes and stuff my sleeve in my mouth to stop the yell of frustration. The crack alone probably told anyone nearby where I am, and since I doubt any of us missed the meaning of the chime, they will be nearby. I wait for the footsteps, the heavy breath, the lithe or hulking figure to come racing down the path towards me, bottling up the curses at my own clumsiness.

No-one comes.

This time I rise slowly with the help of my stick. It and my knife are my last weapons now. If I get caught I'm dead. Simple. One plus one is two. I can do this.

Twenty-five steps to the clearing. The square root of twenty-five is five. Is five my lucky number? No, there's only four of us. Maybe three. Today my only lucky number is one.

Fifty yards to the Cornucopia, to the long table covered in silver serving platters, several of which are open and steaming. Fifty yards to the lanky figure seated on a crate behind them, one hand resting on his spear while he shoves something in his mouth with the other. The breeze blows in my direction, and I can smell the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat. He hasn't heard me, hasn't seen me. He is focused on the passage two along, the one he and his allies entered through when they chased me from here last time.

And when a louder rustle attracts both our attention he stands and smiles and flicks the red-gold hair out of his eyes as he waves the fist-full of meat at the hulking figure.

"Are you hungry? You sure aren't thirsty!"

From this distance it's hard to see the expression on Halifax's face as he steps into the clearing sword at the ready, but if I had to guess I would say disgust.

"What's the matter District Two? Don't you want to eat? It's good. Come, join me for the feast."

His words are mangled by the mouthful of food, but the mocking tone and pompous sweep of his arm seem to anger his opponent.

"Well? Are you scared to eat with me? You must have been scared when you ran away the other night while I was SLEEPING!"

He yells the last, and doesn't seem surprised when his former ally charges him. But he has the table in the way, and his spear has longer reach. Still, Halifax manages to turn the stabs aside with his sword, and quickly realises his mistake. As he runs around the end of the table, the far end, so that he is practically facing me, I see Jasper reach to the back of his belt and draw a knife.

The throw goes wide, hitting the bigger boy's arm instead of his chest, but it distracts him enough to slow his second charge and prevents his momentum being an advantage. Momentum, mass multiplied by velocity. If they kill each other I won't have to fight either of them. I can win this.

The clash of weapons rings out across the clearing as they fight, back and forth, side to side. Halifax is limping again, and Jasper keeps swiping at his forehead, blood or sweat I can't tell. He doesn't seem so cocky any more. The next time he raises his arm to clear his eyes Halifax launches at him, and he only just gets the spear up in time. I can't tell if he's actually hit, but the bottom third of the wooden shaft rolls away under the table and Jasper staggers back towards me.

He's off-balance and quite possibly wounded, and Halifax is closing in for the kill, sword raised high. There is no way he can correct himself in time, and I'm trying to decide whether I should look away when three things happen.

First, the huge figure of the boy from Two pauses briefly. His eyes flicker over the shoulder of his off-balance foe, and I realise I must have moved because we stare at each-other for a split second that seems an eternity. Then his face takes on a puzzled expression and he looks down at the wooden shaft now embedded in his side. Too narrow for a spear haft, and not a killing wound, but it doesn't matter.

The wind carries the soft laughter across the field to me, and I like Halifax glance in the direction of the sound and the recently fired arrow. Jasper doesn't and Halifax doesn't see the spear until it's already imbedded in his throat.

As his broad shoulders collapse I can see the flash of gold hair from the path opposite mine that marks the fourth competitor. Sparrow laughs again as his next arrow sails at Jasper's head. It misses. The next one hits the ground where the boy from One was kneeling only seconds before. The third hits him in the foot, but doesn't slow his charge. There is no fourth arrow.

His yell of frustration sounds like Malcy throwing a tantrum, and Sparrow glares at the now useless bow for a few crucial seconds before he realises he should probably be running.

But he's fast and has a good twenty yards head-start on Jasper, whose incoherent warcry echoes back as he pursues the smaller boy down the pathway. And I'll have to fight whichever one wins. It's almost tempting to follow after them; the safest place right now might well be just behind them, and I'd be close to the action. Then again, if Jasper catches him, he'll probably just turn around and come back to the food.

The food. It's sitting out there in the open, and the others are busy fighting. I'd have enough time from the cannon to make it to safety, and there are so many covered platters that they wouldn't know some was gone.

Besides, if Sparrow is using the path he is most familiar with then I know from day one it loops back around to this one and I don't really want them coming up behind me. I could take one, but not two, and Sparrow is small enough that the trap would miss him altogether.

Standing here being indecisive won't do me any good. Then again, it's not like I need the food. This will probably be all over today. But there might be something else there that's useful, and if I hid in the Cornucopia...

I can imagine Beetee, my family, my district yelling at me from wherever they are watching as I hurry out into the open, to the laden table. Mentally I ignore them; it feels like the right thing to do. I can see the plates in the middle that Jasper was eating from, thick slices of roasted meat and steaming vegetables with huge smeared gaps from his grasping fingers.

The other dozen plates are still covered by the silver domes, which I quickly remove to find….nothing. The next one is the same, and the next. All empty but for the uncovered ones in the middle. I shouldn't be surprised. There's still no sound of a cannon, so I examine the least smeared platter for some smaller pieces of meat and stuff them in my pockets. I'm wiping my hands clean when I hear the footsteps and dive back into the shadows of the golden horn, holding my breath as they appear. Through the passage I had been standing in.

Neither of them sees me cowering behind the pile of empty packs and crates, unused supplies left piled in the entrance. Jasper is focused solely on the golden-haired boy who is still fifteen yards ahead of him, laughing, taunting.

"You can't catch me, no-one can catch me. I'm too fast, I'm a bird in the skies. No-one catches Sparrow!"

His voice cracks with a hysterical note that I recognise well, and his chanted insults have a sing-song rhythm to them. He's not all there, for certain. I'm not sure I'm all there either, so I can't really blame him. He's just a boy. A little boy who is making Jasper chase him in circles around and around the golden horn, the Career chases the Sparrow.

Jasper's face is covered in blood, a series of scratches that looks remarkably like a ball of spikes hit him. Finally he gets sick of the seemingly endless chase and after their third loop around the Cornucopia he stops and waits just outside the mouth, waiting for Sparrow to race into his arms.

But the little boy from Eleven is smarter than that, and it takes me a few seconds to realise what the clatter above my head means. Sparrow continues his capering dance on top of the Cornucopia, his childish voice ringing with taunts, occasionally broken by short bouts of giggling laughter.

"You can't catch me! I'm too high up! Come and get me Jathper. Then you can fly just like me!"

Sparrow lisps Jasper's name childishly, and the older boy curls his lip in disgust. He disappears from my sight, around to the side, and I hear some heavy clattering, a yell of pain and another bout of laughter from above. When he appears again, he is nursing his fingers and hurling insults back.

Back and forth, singsong words, the pounding of feet on metal. I clamp my hands over my ears to block out the ever-growing reverberations, praying that the pile will block me from view. Suddenly there is a scream and then silence. I unblock my ears to hear a soft thud and a resonant boom.

Jasper walks over to the lump on the ground and kicks it contemptuously over, dragging free the two-thirds spear he must have eventually thrown before the hovercraft comes. From here I can just see the golden flop of his hair as Jasper kicks him again, this time with a laugh and mutters, "Too fast huh?"

And now there are two of us. I had sort of hoped that Jasper would move away to let the hovercraft come, but he doesn't seem to want to leave the food. He staggers back to the table to continue feasting, not the slightest bit bothered by two peoples' blood on his hands mingling with the juices.

Through every mouthful I can hear him muttering still, "One to go, they'll try and steal my food and I'll kill them. Just like everyone else. Dead."

He frowns when he reaches for more meat, and I briefly wonder if he notices the missing pieces. Eventually he sits back down on his crate and swipes at the cuts around and above his eye with one hand while his other searches for more meat.

One hand empty, the other full of food. He's let go of his spear. This is my chance, possibly my only chance, trapped here until he hears me breathing, or needs something from a pack or crate. I even have a knife. The question is can I do it?

If I don't, then I will die. It won't be a nice death; he has all the time in the world to make a spectacle, and there is no way I'll be able to beat him in a direct fight. No escape to somewhere that I could turn the tables with my cleverly crafted traps. It's just me and a knife. Just like in training.

It would be murder.

_But he just killed that little boy from Eleven. Thirteen years old, no older than your sister. _

Balia. Could I kill him to save her? To save Malcy? Of course I could.

_If I don't kill him now, he is going to hurt my family. _

It's almost true in a way. I only have to pretend for a few seconds. I wipe my hand on my jacket before slipping the knife loose of the knotted sheath. The cord-wrapped handle fits comfortably in my hand after days of trimming branches. I can do this. I can kill a monster. He's just another mutt that the Gamemakers created.

I use the crates for balance to rise slowly, no falling over, and every step is slow and careful. Silent.

Five steps to the seated figure. Five is my lucky number after-all.

One. He is still eating.

Two. A sharp spasm of pain through my legs and back. I ignore it.

Three. He is still eating.

Four. My palm is already sweaty again. I clench harder so the knife won't slip, so hard my whole arm shakes.

Five. He is still eating. No time to think.

I'm not the little girl I was back in the Training Centre. This time my eyes stay open as I plunge the blade down into the side of his neck.

But he must see the movement or the reflection in the shining silver dome because he turns at the last second and I manage one staggering step backwards before I feel the sharp pain in my chest. The shaft of the spear smacks against my front as I fall, choking on air that isn't there, and I see him looming over me, knife still wedged in the side of his throat, smiling. His lips form the words "District Three," but I can't hear him through the pounding and the pain.

And then he frowns, the knife slides down and out and suddenly there is blood, so much blood everywhere, in my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth, trickling down my throat, burning copper as I drown in blood from the inside and out.

A heavy weight falls across my knees, and I scream again but there is still no breath to scream. All I see is red, all I know is pain. Pain and no breath and the sharp tang of copper.

Then boom echoes through the pain and my last thought as everything fades from red to black is oddly coherent and indignant: _They could at least have waited until I died before they fired my cannon._


	20. Chapter 20

Thanks for sticking with me guys. Still a few chapters to go.

* * *

The world is white, not green. White like that man who murdered the baby on reaping day!

I bolt upright, and shove away the white monster trying to attack me. He wants to pin me down and paralyze me again so the ants can eat me, but he's not as good as the white flowers and my head is still free to move, to bite.

The monster snarls and comes at me with a knife, gleaming silver in the odd non-golden light and I try to lunge away until a voice makes me freeze.

"Wiress, stop!"

It sounds familiar enough to make me pause, the silver descends into my arm with a familiar prick, and the darkness comes again.

-xXx-

_I am drowning, drowning in a sea of molten copper, I can feel it burning as it pours down my throat and scalds my insides. Seeps into my skin and leaks from my eyes, burns, burns, burns. I gasp in pain, but there's no air, and I watch as the molten waves wash over people I know, melting them down, adding them to the flow…_

The world is still unnaturally white. The same way my skin is unnaturally gold. Not gray, not red and blistered and sore, but pale gold. There are no monsters this time, so I run my fingers over this strange skin that can't be mine. So smooth, too smooth, no scars, no burns, no scratches.

There is a needle in my hand, and I follow the cord with my fingers all the way up to the clear bag on the stand. It has green writing on it. The color makes me relax; at least there is something green here.

Even my dress is white, under the white sheets. I don't like white. There was a reason but I can't remember. I bite my lip, trying to remember and the door slides open.

"Wiress?"

Black and white and silver. More black than white, so she can't be too bad.

"Wiress? Can you hear me?"

Of course I can hear her. What a stupid question…

More voices, distant beyond her.

"-no response yet. It happens often enough. Sometimes they don't respond for a few days after waking."

The woman frowns at me. She looks so familiar, but I can't remember why. Balia? No, that's someone else.

"Dido."

She smiles at me, and I remember.

"Why….why am I" here in this soft white bed? I "died."

Maybe this is where the dead tributes go before we're sent home to be buried. But why would they bother making my skin gold and removing all the red? The losers aren't meant to look pretty.

"You won Wiress. You won."

Won what? The Games?

"But Jasper…"

"Your final blow was successful in the end. He died before you did, though you were badly hurt."

I close my eyes, forcing away the memory of that terrible breathless pain. All I remember is red.

Something touches me and I jerk away, snarling, but it is just Dido beside me, shaking her head as she clasps her hands behind her back. Probably reaching for a knife like Jasper did. She's going to kill me!

I try to roll away but she steadies me with her empty hands and I breathe again. And again. It's not quite right. One side doesn't seem to be working very well.

"I have sent for Beetee. He was by your bedside for most of the last three days, but they insisted on an interview. He will be back soon."

Beetee. My mentor.

"He…saved…?"

I remember a parachute, a syringe, a bottle. Shaking fingers and hundreds of small black bodies. A knife in from behind into the neck of a boy. These pretty hands are the hands of a murderer. Not so pretty any more.

"He helped you, but in the end you won yourself."

"No," I tell her softly, shaking my head as I stare at those pretty golden fingers that should be stained red. "I didn't." No one did.

I don't know how long she stays there while I examine my killer's hands, but she is over by the door when Beetee comes.

"Wiress?" he asks hesitantly, staying well back.

"I'm…I'm here," I tell him. Though I'm not sure if that is true. My mind keeps jumping here, there. I may be here now but in a minute I'll be there, hopping and scrambling around.

"That's a relief," he says and steps closer. He is wearing blue. Blue isn't too bad. The sky was blue.

He puts his hands on the edge of the bed, spread wide so I can see they are empty and smiles.

"How…how long…?" I ask.

"Since the Arena? Four days. You were quite wounded."

I know. I remember "Spear…couldn't breathe…"

He nods and half reaches for my arm before snatching his hand back, curling his fingers tightly.

"It pierced your lung. I'm not surprised you couldn't breathe very well. But the Capitol surgeons got to it quickly and knew how to fix it. You might feel short of breath occasionally for the next few weeks but it will get better. The other external injuries were easy to fix."

All the scratches and scrapes, the cuts and bruises gone. The blisters and bites vanished.

"But what about the…" The fingers shaking thing from the flowers and the not moving and the pain and the ants all over me!

Crawling everywhere, biting, gnawing. Eating me from the inside out.

His hands are pinning me down, I can't move, I CAN'T MOVE!

"Wiress, relax. You're safe. Nothing can hurt you now."

But I can feel them crawling, burning, I can't move, I "can't move!"

He lets go and the crawling recedes. I look again at my hands, but there is nothing there. No bites, no black lumps with spindly legs.

"See. It's ok. You can move. You're safe."

Safe. But I can't be safe in the Arena.

"You're not in the Arena anymore."

Of course I'm not. "It's not…. green."

He smiles again, and says "No. It's not."

"It's white. I don't…"

I shudder and he frowns.

"You don't what? You don't like white?"

I shake my head and wrap my arms around my shoulders. He goes to the door, where Dido and the other man are waiting. I can't hear what they are whispering; maybe they are planning on killing me. I'm a killer too, so I can't blame them. Beetee comes back with the man, who now has a gray shirt and brown arms. No white.

"Do you want to try and get up?"

I'm not sure. The last time I stood up I stabbed someone in the neck. Maybe I should just stay here. But here is white. I push aside the sheets and let Beetee and the man help me sit up. It hurts a little, more ache than pain and my chest feels funny. I look down at my right front and poke the place where the spear was.

It feels smooth under the soft material.

"We removed all the scars," the man says but I know he is wrong. There are plenty of scars, just none on the outside.

They help me stand, and I flinch at the expected twinge of my bad ankle, but it doesn't come. The floor is cool to my bare feet, cool and metallic and so reminiscent of getting out of bed at home that I relax a little. Once I've proved that I can take a few steps unaided the others leave and the man passes a bundle of clothes to me before they close the door.

I'm alone again in the glowing white walls. I shudder and change from the loose white robe to the clothing I have been given. Green shirt, green jacket, trousers with pockets. There's a bulge in one of them and I pull out the ring. Ezra's ring. My family.

Will they be happy I'm alive? They just watched me kill in front of the entire nation. In front of my innocent brother and sister. But I am still here. I am still mostly me, I think. I shove the short white socks in my pocket and loop the shoes over one arm. Let the cool metal floor keep me aware.

The corridor is empty when I step out. The walls are more silver-gray than white and I relax even more. At the far end I can hear voices, loud and whining, low and sharp. They don't see me until I'm in the doorway. Beetee is staring at some papers, zoning out the low argument between Dido and Carmenius.

My shoe knocks into the wall with a soft thud and they all turn to look at me. All smiling, though Carmenius' doesn't reach his eyes. As usual.

"Oh. Did you need help with your shoes?"

Dido steps forward, but I shake my head.

"No, I prefer…prefer to.."

I frown. The word evades me, slipping through the gaps in my thoughts. I chase it down and pin it until it goes back in line.

"Barefoot."

Dido shrugs and lets me be. Carmenius snorts loudly.

"Oh great. I finally get a Victor, and she's gone loopy already. Just my luck."

I don't think. I just launch at him, the rubbery shoes my only weapon. There are hands on my shoulders, pinning me, trapping me, and I try to pull away.

"Can't move, can't move, can't…"

The pressure eases up and I turn to see Beetee, crouched behind me, raise his hands up high away above his head.

Carmenius is by the doorway, blood on his face and in his bleached hair. Dido shoves him out, though her head doesn't even reach his shoulder and he glares at me for a few seconds before saying "Loopy. Completely nuts."

I snarl at him and he scurries away. That's useful to know, and funny too. He's scared of a little girl like me. I laugh at the thought and hear someone else join in.

"Well," says Beetee as he stands and offers me a hand. "That's one way of getting rid of him."

I take it and he drags me to my feet. My breath catches again on the right side of my chest, but it's only uncomfortable not painful. I've had enough of pain for now.

"Let's get you upstairs, so you can change and eat. It's nearly lunchtime."

Beetee leads me by the hand and I don't resist. Dido follows behind, her hand there supporting my back whenever I falter. The unexpected contact still makes me flinch, but I'm getting better by the time we reach the end of the hall. The lift is white and I huddle in the corner for the few seconds it takes to reach the ground level. Through the doors I can see a handful of people, but the tinting stops them seeing me. Probably for the best.

This lift is transparent and I stare out over the beautiful city as we rise up. The sharp edges are strange after the days surrounded by hazy green. Going back home will be even worse, where everything is uniformly square and smoky gray. I'll have a house in the Victor's Village now, out on edge of town by the cemetery. No green even there, just gray concrete and brown dirt.

The apartment looks empty with just the three of us there. When Dido leaves to finish preparations for tonight it's even more forlorn. I glance out to the balcony where Stuvek and I spoke the night before the Arena. Probably the last conversation he ever had, considering his stylist.

"Did you want some air?"

No. I've had enough fresh air for this year, and I don't really want to stand out on the balcony full of memories. The couches are the same, as is the dining table. Do they ever change from year to year? I trace the artificial patterns imprinted in the tabletop, following the swirls and spirals back and forth until I notice the Avox server has placed a plate of brown mush in front of me.

"Applesauce on toast. Your stomach shouldn't reject it."

I'd forgotten Beetee was there. He's sitting now, his papers spread out in an arc in front of him. He's got a plate full of stew, thick and steaming chunks of meat and splashes of colored vegetables. My stomach growls and he must see my covetous look towards his meal.

"Believe me, you don't want to eat this. I didn't listen to Cupros or my stylist and spent most of the night trying not to puke on television. Stick to the simple stuff."

In that simple statement he reminds me of two things: The Victory ceremony is tonight, which explains why my stylist and prep team are out preparing, and that Cupros is also gone.

"Where is…" I frown again. The name was there a second ago, on the tip of my tongue but now it's gone. What is wrong with me?

"Dido? She's finishing up your dress for tonight, remember? Your prep team will be here in half an hour to get started."

Yeah, I know that. I shake my head.

"No, where is…" I gesture to the empty seat at the end of the table where Cupros usually sat during meals.

"Cupros? He's…out."

"Drinking." I don't make it a question. Beetee shrugs in an affirmative way and gathers up the papers into a single pile where they won't get splotched. He doesn't start eating until I pick up one of the now-soggy brown triangles and force it down. It's actually pretty good.

While we eat I consider the problem I seem to be having. Words getting lost between here and there. It's not like me. My brain functions like a complex circuit, like the maze, every pathway known and remembered. There shouldn't be breaks in the circuit.

"Beetee."

He looks up from his plate, eyebrows raised above the wire rims.

"I can't….I'm…words…"

I slap the table in frustration. Why is this so difficult? I take a deep breath, and imagine the words scrolling across a screen, saying each one as it appears.

"I…can't…seem…to…find…the…words. They…keep…not…being…there."

He frowns and toys with the fork for a few seconds before delicately laying it down.

"I was afraid of this."

With a heavy sigh he pushes aside the half-empty plate and clasps his hands on the table.

"Do you remember the white flowers in the Arena? "

How could I forget?

"They are an unusual cultivation, and are used for unusual purposes. The nectar is extracted and used to make a drug called Limbo. It causes temporary paralysis in the user as well as heightened stimulation and occasionally hallucinations. Most doses only last an hour or so."

I shudder at the thought of people willingly letting themselves be immobilized. How could they see that as fun? Even now I can feel the ants crawling, biting, the burning seeping up my frozen limbs.

"Wiress. WIRESS!"

I stare at the knife jammed into the table. It wasn't a very sharp knife, but it's imbedded at least an inch deep. Slowly I uncurl my fingers from the handle and clench them together in imitation of his. Maybe this is why he does it. He gives me a jerky nod and sits back.

"Do you remember what I was saying?"

"Flowers are…drug."

"Yes. Inhaling the scent should have put a tribute out for half an hour, an hour at most. But you got a full dose when you fell into them, much stronger than planned. The doctors said there might be some side effects."

Like my shaking fingers and inability to verbally complete sentences.

"Permanent?"

He looks away, down at the table.

"Hard to say. There are some medications that might help, therapy. You will get better. The question is how much."

I nod, even though he's not looking. I could manage the speaking issue I think; it's the shaking that bothers me. How could I ever design or build properly with tremors in my hands? At least he's not trying to hide the facts from me. I'd rather know now, so that I can work out what to do.

"Beetee?"

He looks up again, and I realise for the first time how tired he looks. His skin is more gray and the usual dark circles under his eyes are enormous bags that drop well below the silver rims of his glasses. Even his normally neat, straight hair is scruffy.

"Thank you."

He stares at me. "For what?"

"For….for being….honest. And for…"

Every word after the first few is a fight. Like I'm trapped in the maze again, and the letters keep running away. I'll just have to learn my way around again.

"For?" he prompts and I try to smile, to show him it's ok.

"For…saving me."

He smiles back, but it has a wry twist to it and doesn't stretch to the rest of his face. His knuckles are white on the tabletop as he replies.

"I'm not sure you should call it saved."

I knew that before going in. I understand it now. The pain of living is far worse than the pain of dying, but it's that pain that makes us who we are. Keeps us together. It might be better for me to have died, but there are others who would have been suffering instead. My sacrifice to them.

We both jump as the door bursts open, and I'm lucky that the knife is so thoroughly wedged in the table-top because I don't quite manage to pull it free before my prep team reaches me.

Lorcan looks the same as before, but Juliette has dyed her bouncy curls a bright yellow-green and filled them with red and orange flowers. Marius has replaced his blue eye-liner and lipstick with the color of grass. It inexplicably calms me and again I let go of the knife handle.

They drag me away to my room and strip me down, chatting away excitedly as the brushes and creams are unpacked. I could never get a word in edgeways anyway, so my speaking problems are no issue here. None of them have ever worked on a Victor before and they all seem to have a hundred stories about how wonderful the experience has been until I just want to hold them down and make them watch what I will be watching tonight. Hold their eyes open while person after person dies on screen and ask how is this wonderful? Beat their heads against the wall until they understand that it's not just a game.

It scares me that I could do it. So I stare at my killer's hands, flexing and unflexing my fingers while Juliette fiddles with my hair and Marius adds layers of something to my face, neck and shoulders.

Lorcan catches my hands mid-flex and starts working on the nails. There was still paint on some of them in the Arena. Most of them were cracked and torn, caked with dirt and blood, swollen with bites. After the white room they are all uniformly short and rounded. Lorcan covers them with thin ovals of copper etched with silver. The same circuitry designs as I had for the interviews. Apparently they've become a new trend.

Just like flowers, thorns, dark curls and golden skin. Juliette's little sister now wears a ring as a necklace, as do her friends in school. Marius says the sales of green make-up and dyes have sky-rocketed.

I'm not the only trend-setter. The floppy shoulder-length haircut that both Jasper and Sparrow wore is back in for men, as are their gold and red-gold hair colors. Apparently Francis had a birthmark on her shoulder in the shape of a butterfly that has been mass-produced as a temporary tattoo. All the little girls are wearing them.

I stay silent, hearing over and over Francis's scream as my stake-trap smashed into her leg. Sparrow's sing-song caper right before his death. Jasper's cracked laugh as he feasted with bloody hands. Felton's ragged breathing as he stared at me through the hedge on the first night. Tobias's screams as the ants ate him alive. No one will remember them though. No-one will remember Stuvek, with his tousled hair and wry humour, who died in the bloodbath.

Dido chases them out around four and lets me just sit in the chair as she tidies the jars and brushes and lays out a covered dress. I keep my hands wrapped around the ring, let the smooth silk strand rest against my cheek. In the other room I can hear them all still chirping. A dry laugh that might be Cupros. A nasal whine that is definitely Carmenius. All here to celebrate my living. The others' dying.

I don't want to watch it; I know it will be like any other show or book, burn itself into my memory so that I can never forget. I've already watched four people die, that was bad enough. But the others, the others who deserved to live as much as me. Junis, the two boys who teamed up. Stuvek. Even Francis. She tried to kill me, but she didn't seem evil or cruel even if she did volunteer. I overheard her before the Games started saying something about her other choices. To her dying wasn't as bad as living as she was. Do I want to know? Do I have a choice?

No more than I did when my name was drawn at the reaping. I could have done as my sister said, as my district partner did and thrown myself into the bloodbath. Let Jasper catch me with his spear in the first minute. I could have tried to run at the end, could have hit him hard enough to knock him out and fled until something else caught him. Those were the choices I had, and I let them go.

Now I have to live with the consequences of victory and murder.

When Dido tells me that dinner is ready, and do I feel up to joining the others I stand and let her lead me out.


	21. Chapter 21

Beetee wisely seats me between himself and Dido, as far away from Carmenius as possible. The food is still plain, and my plate has much less than the others. Probably for the best since I'm going to watch the mutilation and death of twenty-three children later.

Cupros is back, and as cheerful as I've ever seen him. He's been drinking, though not enough to slur his words and once I start paying attention to the conversation I realise why. Ever since they brought in the mentoring system twenty-five years ago he's been forced to come to the Capitol and watch children die. In twenty-five years he has helped save two. He will finally get a year off.

Usually the previous Victor and their mentor do the next year. After that it varies from district to district. It's never been an issue for us. I'm not looking forward to having to sit by and watch someone under my care die, but it's a whole year away. Plenty of other things to worry about first. Like tonight. And tomorrow. Tomorrow when I'll have to talk on-screen in front of the whole nation.

Once the plates are cleared I am swept back into my room, where Dido oversees the actual make-up and helps me into my dress. It's another coil, this time metallic threads wound together like a coarse rope, looped around my throat and spiralling all the way down to my knees. A copper flower in my hair, the creeper flower, three large and two small petals, not the five white points that nearly killed me. There's a length of copper creeper including blunted thorns that loops my soft curls around the other shoulder and trails down over my chest.

A reminder of my tools. Better this than the knife I used to kill.

"And you should _see_ your dress for tomorrow," Juliette twitters as she smooths individual hairs into place. "The color is _so_ in right now, and the style is be-a-u-tiful. Though the white one had simply _gorgeous_ hems."

I stiffen, and feel a cool hand on my shoulder.

"It didn't capture the…essence of the situation," Dido says softly as she tilts my chin up. "The green is a much better shade and we are due for some color."

I can't help but smile at that, coming from a woman who has bleached all color from her appearance for as long as I can remember.

They finish with time to spare and lead me back out to the couches, where Beetee and Cupros are already waiting in fine suits. Cupros is even clean-shaven.

"Are you ready for this?" Beetee asks me, and I can hear the concern in his voice that I'm going to fall apart or start trying to attack Caesar on-stage.

"I….I think…so."

"You won't have to talk really during the ceremony. And the after-party…well…you can let the sponsors do most of the talking there too."

"They're good at that," Cupros grunts as he reaches for the hip-flask that isn't there. He won't be on stage with us since Beetee was officially my mentor, but all the others will sit in the crowd as they did during the interviews to watch with the nation's wealthy.

"Just remember, whatever you feel, don't…don't let it show. Remember everyone is watching."

Watching how I became the monster. I nod and we sit in silence, waiting and trying not to think.

The call comes and we make our way down to the lower level, where we will rise up to the stage. As we wait in the dimly-lit underground Carmenius turns to say something to me. From the set of his face I doubt it will be something pleasant, so I take a step forward and flex my fingers. He scurries back towards my prep team who are still preening one-another.

The anthem echoes through the ceiling to let us know the show has begun, and I watch as each person takes their turn on the platform. The crowd roars as each is introduced, first the trio then Dido, calm as ever. Beetee seems more fidgety than normal, and I realise the last time he was here was when he won. I try to imagine myself as I was at thirteen standing here now. Balia's age. He was Balia's age when he killed those five tributes.

I have my own disc, off to the side which starts to rise while I'm still thinking. My mind flashes back to the launch room, the narrow tube and the sudden blinding golden light. My knees shaking as I hoped and prayed that I could somehow escape alive.

When it sets level with the stage I wait for the gong to ring, the signal to run to the supplies…but there are no supplies. This isn't the Arena. Just the stage and a few thousand faces ready to watch me watch my victory.

Caesar offers me a hand and I take it cautiously, still not entirely convinced that the mines won't blow me up if I step off too soon. He leads me to the chair, a twisting array of metal vines, flowers, thorns and berries with a plush green pillow.

He seems happy to do all the talking while I smile on cue and wrap my fingers around the edges of the seat so that I won't lash out. I have no doubt that every second of the next three hours will be burned indelibly on my brain for me to relive in my dreams. The replay starts with the anthem again, the reapings including the glimpse of Balia at the front of the crowd. The breath catches in my chest as I see her tear-stained face; she still looks like I remember.

The chariot rides are shown from a distance, only a brief close-up of the two of us trying not to fall out and they segue into a screen of numbers, our names, districts, training scores and ages.

The name below mine catches my eye. Francis Waverley, 15. I thought she was older than that. Most Careers are seventeen or eighteen. Most Victors are at least sixteen. I can only think of a few who were younger. Beetee is still the youngest at time of victory. Thirteen years and eight months.

They only show bits and pieces of the interviews, more from those of us who made it further. Jasper's arrogance, Halifax's imposing demeanour. They show my comment about the Capitol, and about my family being proud of me, and skip all of Stuvek's.

We get to hear Francis and Damian speak of continuing the glory, Aleksander's soft claim that the most popular don't always win, even Anton's cheerful comment about it being past his bedtime. When the show Junis I glance over to the row in the stands, where Seeder is clenching and unclenching her hands the same as I was earlier. Sparrow gets a full minute, and even Tobias has a few words before the screen darkens and I tighten my grip on the metal edges.

We rise through the eyes of pretty Starria, though the camera quickly takes a high panoramic view to show the maze in full before plunging back down to cut around our faces. She was only two along from me and I can see my face shift from nervous fear to enlightened determination as I realise what the walls and passages mean. Most of the others look puzzled, afraid or eager.

They continue looping around, and I see Stuvek, chin held high as he eyes a dagger. Next to him is Lucinda from Two, who licks her lips and gestures to her district partner half a dozen platforms back. The countdown reaches five as the circle finishes and when the gong sounds the screen splits to show two or three images at once. Halifax lunging sideways, not even bothering with weapons as he crunches into screaming Viola from Twelve. The tussle between Tobias and the crying girl from Eight over a bottle, ending when he rips it from her fingers and smashes her over the head again and again.

They show Jasper and Francis both racing for their preferred weapons while I make my stumbling dive to the satchel and retreat. As I thought Francis has the bow in her hands and an arrow on the string within seconds. Suddenly I freeze as I watch her first shot arch directly at my running back. I bend over to scoop up the bread roll by the platform and the arrow flies over my head. I nearly died at the Cornucopia and I didn't even notice.

Caesar makes a questioning noise beside me and I let out the breath as Jasper chases down Starria, tripping her with the shaft so that he can play with his kill. Damian running down tiny Emilia and slitting her throat. Morris, who actually gets his hands on a sword and a pack, only to find himself blocked off by Wenda with a knife and desperate expression.

Brawny Shovan makes it all the way to the side of the Cornucopia to snatch up an axe and machete, and turns to see Halifax bearing down on him. Stuvek, poor Stuvek who races for the knife and nearly has it when Lucinda tackles him from behind. He actually gets a few good hits in, splitting her lip and scratching her neck before she delivers a crushing blow to his throat and scoops up the knife, leaving him to suffocate. She uses it to pounce on Berilly from Five who is sitting on the ground staring at the silvery object in her hand.

Sparrow and Tarragon are parallel blurs as they snatch up supplies and flee, one north, one west. Junis lets Anton race past her before stepping from her platform. She's in a lull area, and has no trouble getting a pack and knife. She also scoops something from the ground near her platform on her way out, something small and silver like Berilly was holding.

Francis loosing arrows in a flurry. Her second shot takes Felton in the back, her third pings off Aleksander's shield as he scurries away with a pack. The fourth catches Tobias in the arm as he rummages around the grass and he dodges another to make his escape.

Anton somehow ducks and weaves through three separate fights, evades two shots from Francis and flees through the north path as well.

The screen drops back to the two remaining fights: Axe-wielding Shovan against the unarmed Halifax, while Lucinda prowls behind; and the three-way tussle between Morris, Wenda and Daniellis, who took plenty of time to find a sword that she liked.

She uses the narrow edge to slice Wenda's legs from behind and kicks her away as Morris charges her. She has three inches and years of training on him, but he puts up a good fight, blocking most of what she throws at him. They circle around one another while Wenda crawls through the grass to a pair of knives, whimpering as her legs bleed. She manages to throw one of them half the distance to Daniellis's back before Damian reaches her and spears her dead.

Shovan and Halifax are still going. Shovan is down his machete and Halifax has a cut across his left shoulder. Hack and slash, they cut between the two fights on screen. Morris sees a chance and darts in, but she was faking the stumble and the sharp edge takes out his throat. Halifax manages to get in close and it becomes a wrestling match. On the ground Stuvek has finished convulsing and lies still and dead. Starria is still moaning as she bleeds out from a deep stomach wound and multiple cuts on her arms and face.

They show Felton staggering away, colliding with the thorny hedge more often than not as he follows the familiar path; my run-in with Sparrow, the two of us going our separate ways in the southern half of the maze.

Junis, who holds the small silver object up above her head as she runs. The camera zooms in to show a compass, which she checks after every turn. Dalton, who left empty-handed nearly collides with a different wall of wasp-nests.

Now that the initial killings are done they focus on the story, my story. The story of a cold girl who outsmarts her opponents and creates deadly wonders to ensnare them. They show my encounter with Felton, his scrambling retreat and death. They don't show me choking back a scream at the blood on my hands.

They show myself, Junis, Sparrow and Damian climbing the hedges to collect food and look over the maze. Both Damian and Sparrow reach the top, and Sparrow crows with delight when he spots the south-west tower.

They show my clamber to the roof to find water and cut away before I slip. Can't have their Victor looking helpless. The view shifts to Tarragon from Nine, who told everyone she had a secret ability. Watching now it's obvious what it is and why she thought it would save her. She takes a corner too fast and suddenly finds herself ensnared in a glistening white web. Spider web, with three chest-high spiders bearing down. She cuts herself free and runs. And runs and runs.

It doesn't matter that she's completely lost in the twisting turns, because she is so fast and goes for so long. She loses the spiders, but keeps going right around the corner into the entire Career pack. She flattens Damian from her speed, and tries to run through them but Jasper's spear takes her through the leg.

He kills her slowly as he bragged. I shift my hands around until an ornamental metal flower digs into the palm as the audience cheers.

They alternate shots of me building my personal Arena with clips of Sparrow cutting and sharpening scores of javelins from the top of his tower. The game of cat and mouse as Junis leads the Careers on a savage chase through the north-east quadrant. Anton and Aleksander being forced together by some sort of snake creatures and deciding to team up rather than fight.

Night has fallen on day three when Dalton, half-delirious from thirst stumbles upon Sparrow's tower. The innocent faced boy calls out to him, asks if he's thirsty. Then hurls a javelin at him and laughs as he flees with it stuck in his side. Not so innocent after all.

The view cuts back to me fixing up more of my traps and fighting off the weasel things. Dalton finally finds water and scoops mouthful after mouthful from the edge. They cut back to him half a dozen times, each showing him in more agony from the parasites in the water. By the timer in the bottom of the screen it takes him hours to die.

When Tobias turns into that path I have to look away. He brushes past a clump of the flowers near sunset and collapses about ten steps later. He's starting to regain some movement when the ants arrive, but seems more affected by their venom. I close my eyes and bite my lip until the screams stop, only seconds in this abridged version.

They show the Careers and Junis, who are only fifty yards away, stopped and listening. Anton and Aleksander stringing up the thorny creepers along a blind turn.

The day of my Cornucopia raid dawns, and my creeping preparations are lost in the renewed chase of Junis by the Careers. She takes an arrow in the back of her shoulder but loses them down a side-path that turns into a triple fork. Only now she's in an area she hasn't explored and it shows. She follows one path through a series of double-backs, around an oddly familiar corner and even though I never went there myself I recognise it and shudder.

"Not that way!"

Caesar clears his throat, and I realise I've spoken out loud. Realised what the audience will see in a few seconds. The sticky web takes Junis by surprise as it did Tarragon before her. She too has a knife to cut herself free but is nowhere near as fast. She's only twenty yards ahead of the spiders when she runs back into the Careers. Damian knocks her feet from under her and Halifax looms over to strike her down. She rolls aside, kicks him in the groin and tries to scramble past him. Lucinda catches her and drags her back by the hair. Their brief tussle ends with a knife planted in the base of Junis's skull. It's a quick and painless a death as anyone gets in the Arena, but when I glance again at Seeder she still has her face buried in Chaff's shoulder.

Then the spiders come. Lucinda is right in their path and doesn't get a chance to turn around before she is down. The pair from One scream and run, Francis and Damian right behind them. Halifax cuts the front legs out from the leader, realises his allies have fled and runs after them cursing.

They keep running and running, Jasper in the lead until he stumbles over the trip-line. Danniellis falls over him and takes Aleksander's spear to the chest. Damian tries to leap into the fight, but collides with Jasper who is still tangled in the creeper and they both topple into the much smaller Francis. It's almost like a comedy routine and the crowd are howling with laughter. I try not to shudder too visibly.

Halifax leaps the lot of them and drives a crushing blow down onto the hastily raised shield. Aleksander moans at the crack of his arm breaking and throws the shield in Halifax's face. Suddenly Anton darts in with a yell and rams his knife home. Halifax roars and tries to go after him, but the others have finally got themselves untied and Jasper accidentally fouls his lunge.

The two boys escape, while the others crowd around Danniellis, who is struggling to breathe. My own breath catches as I watch her slowly choke out, drowning in her own blood. She stubbornly refuses to ask for mercy even when Halifax offers.

I'm mentally preparing myself for the chase from the Cornucopia when they cut back to the spiders and I find out why Seeder wasn't watching. The monstrosities have started eating Junis and Lucinda. After a few bites they leave the former alone and focus on the girl from Two. Who blinks. And blinks. And blinks again.

Unlike the flowers, the spider venom has her more thoroughly paralysed to the point where only her eyes are moving. Somehow I doubt it blocks the pain as the three spider-mutts tear chunks out of her still living flesh.

I clap a hand over my mouth and look away as the nausea strikes. About half the audience are watching with avid fascination. The other half look as sick as I feel. In the mentors' row a stone-faced woman turns from the screen and mutters something to the man beside her. With a jolt I recognise her as the winner from Janey's year. It seems she no longer has a stomach for torture. Or maybe the people of District Two expect to die fighting, and feel this is an unfair repayment of their vicious support of the Games.

Now they do show my venture, the chase back through the maze, our paths mapped in the corner of the screen so that the audience can follow. Lucinda finally bleeds out from the wounds and I wince with everyone else when the spear snicks my leg. The crowd applauds my dodging skills and cheers when we reach my array of traps and snares. As I thought, it was Jasper left dangling in my thorny loops and with the microphones you can hear Francis's leg break. No wonder they were slow to follow me, even after their mentors drop syringes and creams.

They give a close-up of my face as I settle down for the night; the chilling smile and the dead eyes that stare out of the screen aren't me. What sort of monster breaks a fifteen-year-old girl's leg and lies there thinking about how good it is she won't be running anymore? With all four of them impaired the field seems more level. Damian's face is so swollen from the wasp stings that he's having trouble eating and seeing, which is why he doesn't spot me leaning into the hedge.

They limp off to the south-west quadrant, Sparrow's territory as Anton and Aleksander approach it from the north. Everyone but me tucked into the one corner. I guess the Gamemakers decided I'd played my part enough to earn a day or two off.

The two boys find the tower first, though I'm not sure how. Aleksander's face is colorless and he clamps his jaw with every step. His arm is splinted and tied into a loose sling, but he obviously doesn't have sponsors to help him. At his side Anton keeps up a cheerful monologue while they walk and from the look on the older boy's face he is clearly treating him like a younger brother.

When they reach the spire Sparrow climbs down to them empty handed and offers alliance against the Careers. They accept when they see his first aid kit and don't see his eyes. The camera does, the audience does and they nudge one another with delight. There is nothing innocent in those eyes any more.

He actually does patch them up, and there is room for all three on the platform. Anton takes the first watch and wakes Sparrow well into the night. The crowd is hushed with anticipation, and I suddenly don't want to watch, but I can't seem to look away.

Sparrow smiles as he cuts the sleeping Anton's throat. They are only a year apart from memory, and Anton's not much bigger, but he does convulse once and kick Aleksander's leg. Sparrow curses and leaps for the older boy's throat, but Aleksander is surprisingly fast despite his broken arm. They wrestle for the knife and suddenly Sparrow grins and falls backwards, toppling them both off the edge. He catches the ladder on the way down, grunting in pain then smiling with satisfaction as Aleksander hits the ground with a nasty crunch. Two cannons fire and Sparrow whistles cheerfully as he strips Anton's body and rolls it off the platform for the hovercraft to collect.

The crowd loves him. The sweet, innocent, beautiful, _young_ monster. His mentor Chaff tries not to look too disgusted. I try not to look too disgusted.

The Careers get lost again and a pack of man-sized beetles with razor-sharp jaws tries to drive them towards Sparrow. Francis is using a makeshift crutch to walk and can't keep up with the others. Damian slows to help her, and suddenly they are surrounded. They've killed all but two when Damian stumbles and loses his head. Literally.

Francis finishes them off and cries over her district partner's body, then screams obscenities at the hedges. At her other allies who abandoned them. At the monsters. At everything. I can't help but feel for her when she curls up in a ball and cries herself to sleep like I did on day one.

Jasper and Halifax are chafing to fight, but wait until they get back to the Cornucopia to eat and recover first. Jasper stupidly falls asleep and Halifax stares at him for a long time before leaving with all the food and water. Had it been the other way around Jasper would have killed him in a microsecond. As much as I don't like them, the people of District Two have honor.

The battle when Francis finds Sparrow's retreat is fierce and long, but repetitive. She shoots at him in his tower, he lobs a javelin back. She has two quivers of arrows and some of her shots fly past to the other side where she can retrieve them.

She is down to five arrows and he has just the one javelin left. Her next shot is very close and he screams and falls. From this angle it's impossible to see where he's hit but he doesn't move. She waits five minutes. Ten minutes. An hour, the little clock in the bottom of the screen keeps track of time. Still no cannon. She thinks about leaving, you can see it in her face. Just leave him to die. But she can't, because he's probably unconscious now and he might get better later.

So she drags herself up the ladder despite her broken leg to discover that he is not unconscious. Not even badly hurt. The last javelin takes her through the throat and he laughs. That horrible giggle that cracks hysterically. The audience still love him, though a good number were cheering for Francis too.

How disappointed they must be that I won. Suddenly I'm very afraid of the party to come. It's for the sponsors, the major sponsors. Not necessarily my sponsors.

The feast is already burned into my memory, up until the moment I stabbed Jasper and got stabbed in return. Watching now I can see how his last minute turn saves him. But he leaps to his feet and twists around to spear me and it's too fast for his own good. If he'd been slower the knife might not have moved so much. Might not have slipped down and out, releasing the pressure and letting his blood flow.

I know the cameras are showing me on screen as I watch myself drowning in his blood, literally coated red as I fight to breathe. He collapses on top of me and I'm back there again the sticky copper gurgling in my throat, a weight across my legs, a blade in my chest. It's so hard to breathe, can't breathe, drowning in blood, drowning…

The roar of applause and the blaring anthem wakes me, which is good because I don't try to kill Caesar when he touches my arm. He steps away quickly, years of experience and waits for me to take the offered hand. In the eighteen years he's been hosting I'd guess someone took a swing at him.

Both my palms are bleeding from grasping the metal chair. I think he notices and is careful not to hurt me as I step to the front of the stage. Or maybe he doesn't want my blood on his shiny clean skin. I can't blame him for that either.

He steps back and bows his head at President Snow's arrival. There's a boy not old enough to be a tribute behind him bearing the crown. He has the same puffy lips as the man standing before me, reaching up to place the crown on my head. Snow is the same height as Beetee. I wonder how he would have reached if Halifax or Shovan won. Maybe had them kneel before him. I'm glad I don't have to; looking him in the eyes is bad enough.

One last cheer from the crowd and I'm hurried off stage for the party. I don't want to go. I don't want to meet these people who lavished money to aid my death, though I suppose I should at least thank the ones that sponsored me.

Beetee manages to take my arm as we're bundled into the waiting long cars and slams the door shut before Carmenius can follow.

"Is that…"

"Smart? Probably not. Satisfying?"

"Very," I answer for him and get an affirmative smile in return.

I survived the Arena, and survived it again tonight. Just the banquet and final interview to go, then I can go home and…

The interview. How am I going to do the interview when I can't even finish a simple sentence?


	22. Chapter 22

Beetee must feel me tense because he cautiously takes my hand and squeezes lightly.

"It's ok Wiress. The worst is over, you managed just fine. I'll be there beside you tonight."

"But I can't…what if…"

"Don't worry. The people of the Capitol love nothing more than to hear themselves talk. Most of them won't even notice. As for the rest, well, I'll explain it to them. We'll worry about tomorrow tomorrow."

"Thanks," I whisper. My mouth has suddenly gone dry. I just want to crawl into bed and sleep. Let these people spend days starving and fighting for their lives and see if they want to stand around at a party.

I swallow hard and try to put on a friendly expression as we get out. Some of these people did save me after all. And some of them wanted the others to win. No point making them like me less.

Thankfully, Beetee's comment is accurate, and I spend most of the night smiling and listening. I'm officially introduced to plump Plutarch and his grey-haired father, who sponsored the painkiller and bandage. They also chipped in a little towards the antidote to the flowers. Yellan Garfunkel's money also went to that, a fact he mentions no less than seven times during our conversation.

Dido, whose skin is bleached white and wears silver chains from her ears to her nose called him eccentric. She didn't mention he was incredibly vain and so convinced of his importance that he could have sat on his ego. Even so, I like him more than many of the others because he chose to help me.

Certainly much more than the Redferns. Beetee did end up going to them as well for that one tiny bottle. It was only a small contribution by their standards, enough to feed our entire apartment block back home for a few months. Minister Redfern says she looks forward to meeting me again in the near future and that I might be able to assist them with a few things. I try not to look into her eyes. They're cold like mine were when I killed Jasper.

I don't mind Clara though. She actually gives me a chance to reply, and when Beetee explains my problem she immediately promises to look into various cures. The whole time she clasps my hand like a sister and I force down the impulse to tug free or lash out for nearly fifteen minutes. With darker hair and eyes, a slightly longer nose and freckles she would be the mirror of Francis.

At least a dozen people tell me they were hoping for one of the pretty boys to win, twin girls about my age glare at me while wearing butterfly tattoos and an older man tries stroking my hair from behind. If I'd been faster I might have broken his fingers. Beetee apologises for me and drags me across the hall to the food tables.

The night becomes one big blur and the clock is chiming three in the morning when we finally escape. I don't remember passing out in the car, which is probably good since I doubt Beetee carried me up. If I'd woken in a strange man's arms I would probably have tried to kill him too.

That's the problem with killing and violence. Once you've done it, it becomes too easy to do again. I stare at my hands, my smooth golden hands that shine in the morning light. The slight tremble has nothing to do with thoughts of killing. I am a monster of the games after all, though not as much of a monster as Jasper or Sparrow became.

That thought alone gets me out of bed and I wander down to the dining room where breakfast is already laid out. Cupros is reading a newspaper and guzzling coffee. I let the Avox load up a bowl of fruit and yoghurt for me. It's the same man who was in here before the Games and he remembers which fruits are my favourites. He also pours me a glass of apple juice when my trembling hand nearly up-ends the pitcher.

I dimly remember seeing Cupros at the banquet early on in the night. He doesn't look particularly hung-over today. Maybe the knowledge that he won't be back here next year was enough to limit his drinking. He doesn't speak so I don't either. Just sit and eat my breakfast like nothing has changed. Like I haven't hunted and killed since the last time I ate here.

Finally he sighs and tosses the paper down. I only jump a little; I must be getting better. The front cover is President Snow crowning me. My empty eyes stare back from the glossy image. There is a full analysis of my arsenal of traps and creations on pages 3 and 4 and five reasons why I'm a better winner than Jasper on page 7. I push it and the half-eaten bowl away.

"It takes a bit to eat normally again."

I'm not sure anything will go back to normal again.

"One more day and you'll be home. It gets better."

Says the man who drinks himself into a stupor every year on screen, who turns up to district events unkempt and unshaven, always sharp-tongued and grouchy. It this is better I don't want to see worse.

He must see something in my face that tells him what I'm thinking because he grimaces and says, "You're doing a helluva lot better than Beetee did."

The disbelief must also show and he adds, "One of his prep team looked like the girl from Two that year. He stabbed her with a file during the ceremony prep and she nearly lost the eye. I had to pin him down for an hour before he got back to where I could reason with him."

He absently rubs his shoulder and I wonder if he got stabbed too. Beetee was only thirteen when he…survived. Then again I saw last night how much damage a thirteen-year-old boy can do.

"Look, I saw you last night talking to the Redfern girl, and she looks as much like Waverley as Riococia did like Cicely. You didn't try to attack her."

I also didn't kill her. Not directly. And it was a close thing last night as well. There were a few times when I "nearly lashed out."

"But you didn't. Good thing too. The Redferns would have…well."

Hitting important people is bad. I nod and he gives me one of his twisted half-smiles, as though he forgot how to do the real thing a long time ago. Too many years of watching over the dead.

My prep team arrives with another burst of color and chatter. I let them drag me away to poke and prod while I stare at the face of the girl I'm not sure I recognize in the mirror. She looks like me on the outside, but there's something not quite right under the surface. I can see it in the involuntary movements, in the glazed eyes, in the way she clenches her fingers. It should bother me a lot more than it does but the same numbness that has taken over me since I woke in the white room keeps me still. Numbness to pain, to violence, to death. It was before the white room, back in the arena when I stopped caring about the deaths. Without it I'm not sure I would have survived the viewing, or the Games at all for that matter. I'll need it again today while we talk about my 'victory'.

At one point Marius disappears to find a different shade of some powder and Juliette steps out to fetch Dido, leaving Lorcan to keep me from doing anything stupid. I see his reflection open its mouth then close it a few times with a shake of his head as he adjusts the copper flowers now growing in my dark waves. Marius and Juliette have been their same talkative, excited selves but Lorcan seems to be more wary of me.

I'm not sure it it's because we're alone or because he saw me knife a boy not much younger than himself on television. The fourth time he opens his mouth I catch his eye in the mirror and he looks away first, hands shaking slightly. Maybe he heard about Beetee stabbing the woman from his prep team and thinks I might try the same. Not that there is anything in reach I could use to stab him. Even the comb handle on the table is only slightly pointed and too far away to grab while sitting.

He must see the movement of my eyes because he slowly reaches out and shifts the comb further away. This time he meets my look and stays there, just out of reach.

"It's worse than it looks isn't it?"

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say here. What's worse? The Arena? Living with the knowledge that others have died at your hands so that you can live? The Games as a whole?

I guess the answer to all of the above is the same.

"Yes."

In the mirror his hand reaches out, slowly, slowly and touches my neck, near where I stabbed Jasper. I don't flinch. Don't lash out. Just let my copper-coated nails dig into my palms until the door sweeps open and he is suddenly adjusting the flowers in my hair again.

As mentioned yesterday the dress is green. Layers of green like the hedges with tiny flowers sewn here and there. Like everything else I have worn it covers me well past the point of modesty, for which I am immensely grateful. Let them remember me as an intelligent and distant killer; it's better than having creepy old men paw at my hair.

The interview takes place in the lounge room with its wonderful view of the city through the balcony doors. The camera people are still setting up and Caesar has Beetee pinned in the corner, chatting amicably away. He doesn't seem to notice how Beetee pulls away from the hand on his arm, how his fingers clench and his blinking increases as he tries to draw away. I understand now why the contact bothers him. It's not about them touching us; it's about us trying not to hurt them. They don't understand that we are killers. We survived on instinct and violence and they want to pin us down like trained animals, like pets to dance for their amusement. No-one who has survived what I survived would be tame.

Ceasar does let go once he sees my reflection in the windows and hurries over to bestow a fatherly hug. He doesn't grab me tightly though. Too experienced for that. I guess he doesn't realise how little the killer instinct wanes over time. Will I still instinctively lash out at people ten, twenty years from now? I hope not.

"So Wiress, Beetee here says you're a little worried about talking?"

He leads me to the chair by the hand like a small child and I let him. It's ok if I can see where he is and what he is doing with his hands.

"I…I seem to be…struggling…"

"With finishing your sentences. Yes, yes, he mentioned. Not to worry my dear, that's what I'm here for."

He pats my hand and gives that flashing white grin so famous for nearly twenty years. He's been hosting the games longer than I've been alive. Might have even been alive during the dark days. No-one knows his age and his face hasn't changed at all in the years I've been watching. For all we know he might be a Capitol creation, an eternal mutt who exists for the sole purpose of presenting the annual sacrifices to the nation. Just another monster who…

"Wiress? WIRESS!"

There's a hand waving in front of my eyes. Pain in my arms where the copper fingernails have dug in. From the corner Juliette gives a long-suffering sigh and brings over the powders and creams.

"Well," says Caesar, who has lost some of the polished smile. He's also no longer touching me. Doesn't want to catch my sickness.

"There's no way you can film now and broadcast later?" Beetee asks, though he doesn't look hopeful.

"Our honored president and extended audience are expecting a live interview and we would do well not to disappoint them."

He sighs heavily, reaches out to pat my hand again and thinks better of it. Juliette takes charge of my arms and begins erasing the red welts while Caesar continues.

"If you are really struggling I will end it early, provided we have made it through a few salient questions. Is there anything that would help keep your focus?"

If the questions involved a circuit diagram or design draft I could manage fine. If they wanted me to take apart and rebuild the electronics in the apartment I would focus without issue. But talking? Talking has never been my strong point. Apart from a handful of teachers and school mates the only people I speak easily with are "my family. Balia. Ezra."

Caesar smiles again and it actually looks sincere. "Your sister Balia seemed lovely in the interviews in District Three. A most charming young lady. And Ezra was very well spoken and praised you highly. The people of Panem will undoubtedly want to hear about them, but they can't be the only topic."

He continues smiling at me, waiting, I realise for other suggestions.

"Electronics? School.."

"Yes, we could work those around to a discussion of your snares and that wonderful crossbow you constructed. Anything else?"

Isn't that enough? Victor or not, I doubt I'm interesting enough for people to want to watch for hours. Not that they have a choice. Choices. The way I chose my path, like "a circuit board. The pathways."

His eyebrows shoot up, as do Beetee's behind him.

"Is _that_ how you navigated the maze? Oh yes, we can most definitely work that in. There will have to be something about the end, but we'll leave that for last. Just remember your brother and sister are watching."

Everyone will be watching their newest Victor revel in their glory. I try not to snort.

The moment Juliette finishes with my arms the camera crew fire up their weapons and we are suddenly live and talking.

It's not so bad in the end. Caesar asks open-ended questions where he can and lets me segue into areas that make me feel comfortable whenever the panic sets in. I even manage several sentences when we get onto how I mapped out the maze and Caesar expresses suitable admiration.

Finally the turn comes to what I was dreading and I can feel my whole body tensing, hands scrabbling for something to hold on to. I can only hope the couch isn't too expensive when the copper ovals puncture the surface.

"And what were you thinking the morning of the feast?"

Deep breath and answer.

"I…I was…"

I can feel the terror burning up my throat and hear the couch rip a little more.

"Scared? Or prepared to win?"

Too choked to answer. I force a nod.

"It was a clever tactic to let the stronger tributes fight first. Hiding in the Cornucopia, brilliant. Brilliant."

A flash of white. His teeth or the teeth of a monster, come to eat me. I can't breathe, can't breathe…

"..Balia was thinking when this happened. Or your brother Ezra? Did thinking of them help you win?"

Clever Caesar. Just hearing their names drags me back to reality. And he's right, I was thinking of my family at the end.

"I…I thought of…Balia. She's only tw-thirteen, like S…Sparrow. He killed her…him. He killed Sparrow. It could have been her. It could have been..."

"Balia," He finishes for me, then turns to the camera.

"A courageous Victor who won through her vast intelligence and determination to return to her beloved family. I'm sure we all can't wait to see what she does as a mentor next year. Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, I give you our Victor of the Forty-eighth annual Hunger Games, Wiress LING! This is Caesar Flickerman signing out for another year."

The cameras stop rolling and I dig the copper nails out of the material. One snags and pops off when I tug too sharply. Juliette wails and starts tutting while I sit there and stare at the plain white nail below. A small part of the old me that still remains. Hopefully I find more parts when I get home.

By late afternoon we're on the train, on our way home. Carmenius didn't bother seeing us off much to our mutual delight. Now that he finally has his Victor he might retire or move up to a better district. I doubt he'll be back in Three. Surely our next escort can't be worse.

Beetee, Cupros and I while away the time in the dining carriage, picking over the fresh fruits and sweet pastries on display. Victors eat better than anyone in the Districts, but luxuries can be hard to get all the time. A few hours in Beetee shifts around his scribbled notes that I've been sneaking peeks at from the corner of my eye to show a different and more familiar hand.

"Oh, yes. Would you like these back?"

Beetee passes over my scribblings from that last night before the Arena. The poorly-sketched faces of my family. My assignment. I'll keep that one for Miss Tafter. I wonder if they'll let me finish up at school this year and next. Victors don't have to. Beetee didn't. I might skip the regular schooling, but see if I can continue in SSI. I already miss being in the workshop.

"Wiress?"

Hand on arm. Pen on table. Paper in hand. Deep breaths, deep breaths.

I shake my head and the panic clears. The drawing of Malcy and Mother is torn in two, as is the letter.

He laughs weakly and says, "I guess that's a no. Keep the assignment though, I'll see that it gets to Kona…Miss Tafter."

"Actually, I'd…I..would…like…to…to.."

"To go back? It's probably not the best idea."

"I want to…to..try. The workshop…"

"Might help you relax. Hmmm." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps remaining in the advanced classes would help, though I would advise not…"

"No normal school."

"Yes, good. I'll call Kona tomorrow, first thing. And if not, well, you're welcome to make use of my workshop until you complete your own."

My own workshop? Full of my tools and projects, my Talent, just like Beetee. I can spend the rest of my life with my machines and circuitry, all but a month of each year. No more hours in the factory or in the cramped design offices. Eleven months of bliss and freedom. Perhaps in a few years it will feel like it was worth the cost.

I see our district rise up from a distance, grey lumps over the flat, dry wastelands that surround us. A flash of metal here and there where the steel hasn't been completely dulled by the smog and ash of the factories. The late afternoon sun back to its familiar orange-red tinge through the greasy gray clouds. Home sweet home.

The platform is packed with a sea of dark heads, the odd fair-haired citizen standing out like streetlamps on a shadowed street. The faces are a blur, everyone the same, a wall of mechanical men and women and children lining the tracks.

They are cheering, of course; on camera they could do little else. And they are probably happy as my victory brings food and money to the district for the next eleven months. The train stops moving and suddenly I don't want to leave.

What if they hate me? Or fear me? Treat me like the monster I am. Why can't I stay here in the train where at least Beetee and Cupros understand. But I do want to see them again. My family. I need to know one way or another, will they still want me or will I live out my days in my new house alone.

The door opens and I can feel the weight of Beetee's presence behind me, urging me on. He probably wants to get back to his workshop, to start forgetting again until the next time rolls around.

I smile for the cameras that are flashing and rolling, clutching the ring strung around my neck still. I'll have to give it back to Ezra, but maybe I can make a pendant of my own.

Suddenly I'm breathless, gasping for air as something small and solid clings to my lower half. For a moment I panic until I recognize the dark curls tumbling down. Ezra grabs me next, tucking himself behind Balia so they are both hugging me. My parents on either side, holding me there where I can't breathe, I'm trapped…

Beetee murmurs something and they slowly untangle themselves, though Balia keeps her arm wrapped around my waist, leaning her head against my arm. Three steps behind them Pella has a loose grip on Malcy, who is frowning in concentration. He tugs free of her hand and wanders forwards and I kneel so I can meet him.

"Wiress?"

"It's me Malcy," I whisper and he lets me hug him the way Balia does. Behind him Pella is actually smiling, tears on her face. The warm, dry wind of the district carries the cheers of the people through the familiar gray streets as my family surrounds me.

I am home.

* * *

_Thanks to those of you who have followed Wiress on her journey. I don't intend for it to end here and have already started plotting out a sequel, which will probably cover the 49th and 50th games. However RL has intruded on my writing time again, so it will probably be a month or two before I have enough to start posting. _

_If you're looking for more wonderful HG ff in the interim, I can recommend looking up FernWithy either here on or at her livejournal. I've been following her work for nearly a decade now, originally through the HP fandom, but she's taken up HG in the last year and is simply the most talented ff author I've ever read. _

_Until the next time, thanks for reading and reviewing, and may the odds be ever in your favor._


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